



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





















THE 

Land of Heart-Rest 



ERVILLA GOODRICH TUTTLE 

[Tudley of H. ^' 


Copyrighted, 1914 


BY 

ERVILLA GOODRICH TUTTLE 



CONTENTS 


Heart-Rest Land: page 

Part the First.9-13 

Part the Second.14-18 

Carcassonne.21-22 

Violets at Laurentinum. 23 

Saint Roch’s, New Orleans, La. 24 

Behind the Lattice, Street of Cairo, Chicago, Ill. 24 

The Fair Pink Palace of Jeypore. 25 

The ’Zarina’s Necklace. 25 

Johanna Ambrosius... .. 26 

Sonnets from the Portuguese. 26 

Old Wethersfield. 27 

On Calvary. 31 

The Perfect Flower. 31 

Too Near. 32 

Whither. 32 

The Sea of Galilee. 32 

The Plain of Sharon. 33 

The Wind’s Gifts. 33 

.The Damask Rose. 34 

The Hills ’Round Nazareth. 34 

A Cedar of Lebanon. 35 

The Other Room. 35 

Memorial Day. 36 

Eternity. 37 

Her Grave. 37 

When I Shall Pass My Grave. 37 

Rosa Damascena. 38 

The Withered Leaf. 41 

Love Seeketh Not Her Own. 41 

Orion. 42 

Alone. 42 

A Sign to Hold. 43 

Wine of Roses. 43 

Individuality. 44 

Lost Is the Seeing Faculty. 44 

The Countess of Bath. 44 

The Song in the Shell. 45 

An Ivory Spool. 45 

A Deserted Music Stand. 46 

A Day With My Books.-. 46 

My Saeter Land. 47 

Yesterday and Tomorrow. 47 

A Day Is Like a Cedarn Chest. 48 

Above Snow Line. 48 

A Pen-sive Reverie. 49 

Beyond. 49 
















































4 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Weather Vane. 50 

’Ziel’s Flute. 50 

An Old Havelock. 51 

Dear Heart, Let Us Be Blithe and Gay. 51 

“Melons from Old Spain”. 52 

Abide. 52 

An Ever Blooming Rose. 53 

At Troy Fern. Sem. 53 

The Loving Cup, Banquet Song. 54 

Fair as a Rose.55-56 

Emma Willard’s “Temple of Time”. 57 

My Desk. 58 

My Hour Glass. 59 

A Mountain Height. 59 

The Vanished Days. 60 

Quatrains. 61 


Garden Ways and Field Days 
“In Spring Time and Summer Time ” 

Spring. 65 

Little Colts-foot. 65 

The First Bouquet. 66 

The Bird’s Nest. 66 

The Unfolding. 67 

The Water Willow. 67 

The Blues. 67 

Daffodils. 68 

Dawn and Dusk. 68 

The South Wind. 69 

Cherry Bloom. 69 

Bloodroot Blossoms. 70 

Daisy. 70 

The Thoughts of God. 70 

To a Daisy (In a City Florist’s Window). 71 

White Daisies and White Clover. 71 

When the Linden is in Flower. 72 

Monk’s Hood. 72 

Flower Gold. 73 

Drifting Roses. 73 

The Dream of a Bean. 74 

A Red Rose in Grandmother’s Garden. 75 

A Rose by My Grave. 75 

Memory (Two Petals of a Rose) T. B. Aldrich . 76 

Always a Rose. 77 












































CONTENTS 


5 


PAGE 

Through a Field Glass. 77 

Photo—“The Hollyhocks”.Facing 78 

The Hollyhocks. 78 

The Fifers. 78 

The Great Blue Canterbury Bell. 79 

When the Small Sweet Beechnuts Fall. 79 

Gran’ther’s Clock. 80 

A Witch Wedding.81-82 

Summit View. 83 

St. Martin’s Summer. 83 

The Willow Tree. 84 

“Prince Turveydrop”. 85 

Why Trim the House With Holly?. 86 

Sonnets 

The Far-Off Rose. 89 

What Care the Birds?. 89 

My Holy Day. 90 

The Year to Come. 90 

The Face of Fate. 91 

Tears. 91 

Buckwheat Bloom. 92 

Lachrymae Christi. 92 

Though Poets Die. 93 

Her Fan. 93 

We Know Not His Time. ; . 94 

“Whatsoever He saith unto you, Do it.”. 94 

The Faultless Dead. 95 

Sunshine-Kissed. 95 

Clovers. 96 

The Lord’s Supper. 96 

The Nearest Cross. 97 

Mountain Days. 97 

His Plan. 98 

The Sabbath. 98 

Roses. 99 

Mignonette. 99 

Chandra Mukhi Bose, M. A.100 

The Grass.100 

Unfading Bloom.101 

Spanish Days.101 

A Gleaner.102 

Hammer Work.102 

The Alabaster Box.103 

The Gingko Tree.103 

The Christmas Rose.104 






















































































































































































































































THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


It chanced, one summer in the precious past, 

We could not go to Europe or to Mars 
For days of summer rest. Oh, well, we said, 
We’ll take our rest days here, beneath the shade 
Of our great elm. We’ll live our life out doors, 
We’ll spread our luncheon on the velvet lawn, 
We’ll rest beside the jeweled barb’ry bush, 

And dream we’re on an island in the sea. 

(Our dream came true), and thus the story grew 
Of Heart-Rest Land, so far and yet so near. 


HEART-REST LAND 


Part the First. 

Within the charmed circle of the sea 
There lies the fairest land on which the Sun 
In all his daily journey shines upon. 

More fair than Greece in her most palmy days, 

More royal than was even regal Rome. 

Cares slip from life, as they have slipped from lives 
Of those for evermore in Paradise. 

There Hearts find Rest and so it gained its name. 

The written history of the land began 
When God in Eden made a woman smile. 

Through all the ages it has been a port 

Which souls have longed to reach in time of stress. 

The legends also reach to birth of Time, 

As roots of coptis run bright threads of gold 
Through rich black mold. The tales, romance and song 
Are known to every nation under heaven, 

And will be loved and told till time shall end. 

It rises from the sea a continent 
Of vast extent of varied hill and vale. 

The mountain peaks aspire to reach the sun, 

And glow with rosy light at dawn’s first kiss. 

The rippling rills from snowy mounts make haste 
To join the rivers, which through meadows green 
With blossoms fleet, wind on majestically 
To meet and be forgotten in the sea! 

The pasture lands, where graze the mild milch cows, 
Are sprinkled with the gold of buttercups. 

The sweet low strawberries, the June’s delight, 

Their ripeness hide ’mid grasses of the field, 

White water lilies rock on inland lakes, 

A fleet of sails becalmed on tideless seas. 

The trees which clothe with verdure hill and crag 
Are as the Cedars of Mount Lebanon 
For beauty, glory and for majesty. 

The stately palms by wells of water rise, 

The hemlock wears its Christmas crown of green, 

The red, red seemul, and the Russian birch, 

All grow together in sweet fellowship 
As if Earth knew no plant antipathies. 

While mountain peaks wear glittering crowns of snow, 
The summer ceases not in vales below. 


10 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Fair southern fruits in silver baskets lie 
With blossoms of the north offsetting each. 

For there, as in the lands of Granada 
And far off Ind extremes of climate meet. 

The frost and hail are messengers of God, 

But to those vales they bear no messages. 

The year’s book there has lost the winter leaves. 


’Tis strange a land of such historic charm, 

Of such antiquity, and such high fame 
Has never had for eyes profane to scan 
A map of any authenticity; 

But they who know the land know it so well, 

And having patents of their homesteads there, 

They care not for the mapists’ work of art— 

As lovers smile not on the ivorytype 
In presence of the fair original— 

And they who know not of the land at all 
What value would a map have unto them? 

It is not on the sailing chart of ships, 

Yet every seaman sailing on the seas 
Knows well the Island and the ocean rocks 
Where they who seek their Heart-Rest homesteads leave 
The stately ships of commerce for the boats 
Awaiting there to bear them to the land. 

The nautilus-shaped boats too fragile seem 
For voyaging afar upon the sea, 

And weird they are no living thing in sight. 

But whom the gods love by the gods are kept. 

And rocking in them o’er the silver waves, 

Borne on with speed, a spirit in the sails— 

Which have the shape of wings of butterflies, 

The emblem of our immortality— 

Such sense of peace steals in upon the soul 
That haste is lost to reach the long-sought land. 

And once we breathe the charmed atmosphere 
We smile at things which vexed us yesterday. 

As to the land of rest the boats draw near 
The vision glorious which greets the eye 
Is one that lives in memory with joy 
Until the day of death. While yet in life 
It seems as if one had reached Paradise. 

All beauty of the world we know is there, 

But in the pure clear air is glorified. 

As light winds keep their bright folds fluttering, 

The banners of all nations under heaven 




HEART-REST LAND 


11 


Seem shaking benedictions on the land. 

The harbors are the finest in the world, 

As fabled as the nautilus pearl boats. 

Yet never ship rode into harbor there, 

For by the sacred laws which alter not 
No ship of commerce may the harbor seek 
For refuge, or a cargo leave or take. 

For all things needed from the outside world 
Are thither carried by the oar and sail. 


A gentle Queen reigns over all the land, 

From sea to sea, as love reigns in the heart. 

As right reigns sovereign in the soul—sometimes 
Unhappily deposed, but still the King— 

A Queen as good as wise, of noble mind, 

And fair her face as seems the rosy dawn 
To watchers who are weary of the night. 

It is no gathering place of people where 
One spends a certain number of fair days, 

When cottages are closed, the windows shut, 

Like sad blind eyes, then passing on again. 

Forever chasing as in Dante’s Hell 
To please themselves and never finding rest. 

Like Merrie England ’tis a land of Homes, 

And all the homesteads scattered everywhere 
Are gifts of her most gracious majesty. 

For in the mountains of our earth there’s not 

Enough of gold to buy a foot of land 

In all the wide domain o’er which she reigns, 

And they who from the Queen receive a home, 

To have, to hold, as long as they shall live, 

Must, like the Queen, be royal in themselves. 

The Queen makes choice of those whom she would have 
As dwellers in her Kingdom in the Sea. 

She bids the artist, and the poet soul, 

The singers who like nightingales can sing, 

The students who forget all weariness 
When they have books for rare companionship. 

And scholars, who have gained a greater height, 

And story tellers gifted most of God, 

She bids to dwell within her happy land. 

Beside sweet singers and musicians skilled 
To play the viol, and the sev’n stringed harp, 

She bids the poet-hearted, who to praise 
The songs of others are content, since theirs 
Was not the gift to charm the world with song. 



12 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Perhaps hereafter in God’s heaven above 
We’ll find the soul content to listen, crowned 
In glory equal with the one who sang. 

The world we live in is a wonder land, 

But life in Heart-Rest is more wonderful. 

It differs vitally from life that’s lived 
In any otherwhere on this round globe, 

And change of every outward circumstance 
Requires a change of life the most complete. 

The rivers have no bridges, but are crossed 
By ferries oft, and sometimes by a ford. 

As is the Jordan yet. The meadow springs 
Are often fragrant waters welling up 
And sweetening the air with balm as rare 
As smell of pine woods we remember well. 

Sometimes they are medicinally good, 

The medicine and pleasure taken alike 
By inhalation, vial and the spoon 
Forever vanished from the sight and lip. 

Perhaps with us this will be true sometime. 

The mountains which are rich in gold and gems 
Are never bored to honeycomb for gold. 

Yet everything within the realm is gemmed 
With precious stones; the baby’s cradle bed 
And e’en the toad, which was in Eden, too, 

“Wears yet a precious jewel in his head,” 

And every morning ’tis a sight to see 
The splendor of the jewels everywhere. 

There are no roadways, gashes in the sod 
That wind without a rule by hill and burn, 

With whirls of dust and rattling loaded carts. 

No carts are there, no more than in Cashmere. 

No sound of foot or wheel is ever heard; 

The sandalled foot-fall gives no telltale sound; 

No rushing, steaming trains tear through the fields, 
And leave a mourning plume upon the air. 

No shrieking whistle wakes from happy sleep, 

No smudge of black smoke hangs twixt earth and sky, 
No dust is there to make the air all mirk. 

And landing, all say, “Oh, how sweet to breathe.” 
Without the rushing haste of this fast age, 

The land of Heart-Rest is not late or slow, 

For when they wish they travel with a speed 
Which outspeeds everything yet known on earth. 
They go to Sirius by train of thought 



HEART-REST LAND 


13 


In just no time, and if one wishes it 
A thistledown balloon is near at hand 
To float around just for the afternoon. 

The people are polite in the extreme, 

And even fields of bearded barley bow 
Unto the wind as he goes up and down 
A dozen times a day. And sweetly speak 
To just one daisy, and you set a field 
All dancing stately minuets for joy, 

All happy in the happiness of each. 

In all the land there’s not a lock and key, 

And time—which there is plenty too—is saved, 
Because there are no bolts to bar and ope. 

Your pencil and your tablet may be left 
Where you were fishing, keeping count, like this: 
“This one and one, and four more equal six.” 

And on the morrow you will find it there, 

Tied by a cobweb to a blade of grass. 

And how so slight a thread could make it fast 
Is more than mortal man can understand. 

No work is servile there; servant and served 
Seem working out a heavenly harmony. 

There e^ch one does the thing he best can do, 

To set a table or to sing a song, 

And having done his best his joy is full. 

The people honored by the Queen arrive 
At sunrise and at sunset time exact, 

Without the clanging sound of ringing bell, 

And their appearance is most enviable. 

They all are so unruffled and serene 
As if they had not known a weariness 
In all their journey to its happy end. 

To those who have been granted Homesteads there 
It is indeed a “Paradise Regained.” 

’Tis sweetly silent as a summer noon, 

But never lonely, and all things are planned 
To soothe the life, to cheer the weary soul. 



14 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Part the Second 

A day in one place is the same as day 
Lived in some other place. What heresy. 

A day in Venus or in Mars were not 
At all alike a day upon the Earth. 

And all the wide Pacific is between 
A day in town and in the summer fields. 

When Dawn, old Homer’s rosy fingered sprite, 
Wakes from sweet dreams, and curtains of the mist 
Draws quite aside, and gives a blossom kiss 
To mountains which lift up to greet her smile 
The Heart-Rest people wake in Paradise. 

The all-encircling sea, a silver band 
By sunrise lit, resplendent is as when 
Creation dawned. Upon the shining sea 
Are boats of every nation under heaven, 

Of every pattern after which are made 
The curious craft that suit all kinds of seas, 

Alike in only this, all bear the flag 

Of purple, white and gold, striped up and down, 

The royal colors of the gracious Queen. 

As sweeping oars beat waves with rythmic sound 
The boats come near and touch the pebbled strand, 
And now we seek the place we call our own, 

If so it be the Queen hath honored us, 

And strange it seems to find her royal gift 
Exactly like the place we call our own 
In country or in town. True, houses have 
Miraculously moved from place to place, 

As the Loretto and Van Rensselaer, 

(The last no miracle) to Williamstown. 

And this is ours, translated here for us. 

Our own belongings, into which our lives 
Are fitted, give such sense of restfulness. 

The boats touch land in time for breaking fast. 

The ladies are in white, a single flower 
For ornament, and just a little show 
Of brilliant color for the sake of life. 

God’s blossoms seem to suit each hour we live. 

The gentlemen are all as leisurely 

As if no world of haste were just beyond 

The line where sea and sky blend into one. 

The morning brings two ells of joy to each, 

Sweet letters and the leisure to enjoy. 

The young folks bent on great discoveries, 

Go voyaging through fragrant garden ways 



HEART-REST LAND 


15 


To meet the rosy dawn, and laden come 
With most enchanting tales of things near by. 
One summer time, remembered, oh so well, 
Before the fast was broken for the day 
Each member of the household went to see 
The golden spider in the woodbine trained 
About the southwest corner of the porch. 
When horrid hurry’s boldly driven out 
The luxury of leisure enters in. 

And breakfast is a meal luxurious. 

When life is rid of rude and tiresome haste 
The dinner is most ceremonious, 

The pivot on which turns the day of joy. 

To dine well is a science as exact— 

By some so deemed—as measuring the stars. 
And truly there is added grace to life 
When dinner is in royal manner served. 

When “ Maydensfayre, upon a holiday, 

Bear to the banquet hall to music sweet 
The argus bird, with feathers and gilt beak, 
And are received with stately dignity. 

’Tis nobler bidding than “Come, now and eat. 


It is no sin to love a royal feast, 

When in most royal manner it is served. 

But unforgivable, almost a crime, 

For royal men not to know to feast 

As it becomes the Knights of Christ on Earth. 

For over all this rare and goodly land 

The Lord Christ reigns, although ’tis given a Queen 

To hold the sceptre on the ivory throne 

Of this most happy kingdom in the sea. 

The service at the royal feast each day 
Is noiseless as the flight of Time, who gives 
To each a day as he in silence flits. 


The notes of many birds make up the song 
That makes the summer morning jubilant, 

And there are heard as many languages 
As there were tongues when Babel’s building stopped 
A tongue for ev’ry boat of strange device 
Upon the sea at hour of day’s fair dawn. 

One does not need to understand them all 
If one knows English and—knows Volapuk. 



16 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


As various notes make up the morning song 
Of birds whose plumage varies as their notes, 

Each singing in the tongue that it was born, 

So they who hither come invited by 
The gracious Queen retain the customed garb 
Of their own nationality, and strange 
And bright the ever-moving picture is 
That constantly is passed before the eyes— 

As colored threads are shuttled in a loom. 

Into this land all nations bring their best. 

Their sweetest songs, their noblest thoughts, their all 
That they have wrought, and it is only so 
The Queen invites them to her royal realm, 

The Scythian, Barbarian and Greek 

And Jew, meet here as brothers of one blood. 

The treasures of all lands are hither brought 
As is the wealth of Art. Each in his house 
Is served in regal state with things he loves. 

And his immediate surroundings are 
A faithful copy of his East or West. 

In Heart-Rest are more fair pink palaces 
Than in the Indian city of Jeypore. 

More palms are growing by a single well 
Than there are found within the Holy Land, 

The unbridged rivers all bear names well known, 

The mountains, too, familiar are to all, 

And all the cottages and palaces 
Connected with the world’s romance and song 
Are reproduced in happy Heart-Rest Land. 

In sunny, long past days of Ancient Greece 

Paths led through vineyards and through orchard lands. 

The only marking of the boundaries 

Were rows of olive, plane trees, or a hedge 

Of hawthorne shrub, and friendly gaps were left— 

For paths to wind and lure the footsteps on. 

Oft days are spent in long delightful walks, 

Sometimes to Carmel, where Elijah prayed. 

Sometimes by many towered Camelot. 

Sometimes one wanders without thought or aim, 

To feel the shining of the sunlit air. 

And sometimes with choice friends excursions take 
To Abbotsford or Pliny’s house near Rome, 



HEART-REST LAND 


17 


For in this land the minute and the mile 
Rule not our lives as in the busy world. 

Though Sunrise opens, Sunset closes day. 

The latter, Pliny’s is a favorite place 
In violet time; the terrace then is blue, 

And perfumed with their breath as in the past. 

We spread our luncheon under grand old trees 
And think perhaps he joins the feast with us. 

The luncheon here is always just the same, 

We took it from a letter to a friend. 

“For each a lettuce and a barley cake, 

Three snails, two eggs, and add some gourd shallots. 
Sweet wine, and snow,” oh, no, we take no wine! 
However sweet and cool, or warm the day, 

For Rob is with us, and it would not do, 

And for his sake we never take the wine. 

The occupations of this charmed life— 

For without occupation life were lost— 

Are those which suit the quiet of the place. 

The blissful leisure’s crowded full of joy, 

With reading, sailing, boating, archery, 

And grand old games where victors win a crown. 
The dinner, princely and elaborate, 

Is placed ’mong arts refined and elegant, 

The lost art of fine converse is restored 
And jousts are prized of sparkling repartee. 

Good letter writing as an art’s revived, 

And honored. Doubtless from this Paradise 
Will letters live—upon the shelf—in Time, 

As charming as S6vign6’s of the past. 

The young folk’s till they tire of childish things 
Dance on the green and dream in Arcady. 

Each hour brings its peculiar gift of good, 

Each day is marked by its especial joy. 

And oft with folded hands one sits content 
To listen to the whispering olive leaves. 
Rememb’ring how the dear Lord stole away 
From city streets to be alone and rest. 

It cannot well be called an idle day 

In which the light has made one glad of heart, 

More generous in thought, and given life 
More vigor than it had at rosy dawn, 




18 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Although the busy spindles cease to spin. 

No witchcraft spells disturb the blessed calm, 

Yet there are houses certainly bewitched. 

How else could sunlight in north windows shine 
Just when it touched the noon-mark on the south? 
How could the sunshine-loving kitten find 
Four sun-warmed corners in a single room, 

Unless some sweet enchantment lit the fourth? 
Although three corners often feel the light. 

The people who care not for things like these, 

Are never granted homesteads in the land 
Where all is courtly, each one at his best. 

To those it would be happy as a hell 
Who count the artists and poets work 
As something life could get along without. 

The sand slips through the glass, hour after hour, 
The days slip by into the precious past. 

The ever shifting scene of light and shade 
Gives change of thought, and chang’d thought 
brightens life. 

Together blend in harmony divine 

Life’s laughter with the laughter of the seas, 

As hour by hour the sand slips through the glass, 
And days slip by into eternity. 

And when the Harp strings are in tune again 

The call is sounded in the soul, “Arise 

The world has need of your right arm and brain.’’ 

The gentle Queen then “speeds the going guest” 

With words as sweet as welcome, bidding each 

To bring again into her realm of rest 

The works of art wrought in the workday world. 

A spider spins a web before the door— 

The sign of absence for a single day— 

And all things wait there for our glad return, 

Be it at “morning,” “midnight” or “at noon.’ 



CARCASSONNE AND OTHER 
POEMS 




CARCASSONNE 


Oh, peasant, dying by your fire, 
Ungratified your heart's desire; 

From thine my spirit longing caught, 

And Carcassonne my feet have sought, 
The city of thy prayer. 

But not the throngs in gay attire, 

Or shining of the gilded spire, 

Or church procession in the street, 

Not these my eyes most longed to greet, 
Though they are wondrous fair. 

The moderrt town and bridge is past, 

With footsteps quick and heart beats fast, 
I climb a winding, hilly steep, 

And find where time has been asleep 
In hoary Carcassonne. 

I enter by the gate Narbonne 
To see the sights of Carcassonne, 

And wander, dreaming, here and there, 
Without a fear, without a care, 

Through midheart of the town. 

I stroll along the battlement, 

Where thousand shafts of death were sent 
To greet beleaguers down below, 

In that unhappy long ago, 

When war reached for her crown. 

Oh, sunny land of feast and song; 

Oh, land which suffered fearful wrong, 
Where troubadours their chansons sung, 
Where wealth a purple incense flung 
O’er royal Carcassonne. 

To ages long ago belong 
The city fortified so strong, 

The moat so deep, the towers so tall, 

Full fifty round the double wall 
Of tower-crowned Carcassonne. 

When Romans gave the town a name, 

The heights assurance gave of fame; 

And Visigoth and Saracen 
Have battled o’er the walls since then, 
And, oh, the thousands slain. 


22 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Though years and years have sped away, 
The old town is intact to-day, 

As when the dungeons were made deep, 
Most royal prisoners to keep 
From sight of hill and plain. 

Thy towers still tell the woeful tale 
Of Raymond’s death and maiden’s wail, 
When iron rule made all bow down 
Before imperial hand and crown, 

In fated Carcassonne. 

Fair fortress town in Southern France, 
Renowned in wars of bow and lance, 

In thee have tears as rain been shed, 

In thee have hearts in silence bled, 

Though fair was Carcassonne. 

And still the scene is fair below, 

Still o’er the vale a golden glow, 

Still circling far the blue hills rise, 

To meet the tender, bending skies; 

Still fair is Carcassonne! 

There shines around a peaceful light, 

Where once raged storms of vengeful might; 
Akin to pain, is joy, to see 
The dreamed of in reality; 

And this is Carcassonne! 

And now, when by my fire I sit, 

My dream will be with glory lit, 

Because I traversed long, long way, 

And won from fate a holiday 
In storied Carcassonne. 

Sometimes there hangs a ripened peach 
Upon a bough beyond our reach; 

If I had lived till life was bent, 

I wonder could I died content 
And not seen Carcassonne. 

Sometimes the dreams of life come true— 

It is not sin to wish them to; 

To-day, then, one must seek the gate, 
To-morrow ever is too late 
To reach fair Carcassonne 



VIOLETS AT LAURENTINUM 


23 


VIOLETS AT LAURENTINUM 

Oh, marvel not ’tis joy to me, 

That Pliny is my friend, 

That with his letters, leather-bound, 
Most happy days I spend. 

His favorite Laurentinum, 

Is free to me as home. 

The milestones mark two ways by which 
The villa’s reached from Rome. 

The Consul’s visitors receive 
His favor equally, 

Each on a level with himself 
Is served most royally. 

To sit at meat with such a host 
Is something to be prized, 

And lettuces and snails and sweets 
Are not to be despised. 

But souls are won from banqueting 
To feast upon perfume, 

When o’er the terrace waves a sea 
Of violets in bloom. 

The blue sky bent with loving thought 
To kiss the greening earth 
And where the kisses touched the sod 
The violets had birth. 

The portico is perfumed with 
The incense of their breath 
As buds are woo’d to bloom by words 
An angel whispereth. 

Sweet violets, by spring convoked, 

All bonneted in blue, 

We drink the beauty of your smiles 
As blossoms drink the dew. 

The joyous hours seem, oh, so short, 
However long the stay. 

And roads to Laurens, out from Rome, 
Lead back the self-same way. 



24 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


SAINT ROCH’S 

Shrine visited, Dec. 6, 1902. 

New Orleans, La. 

A candle burns for me to-day, 

Before the shrine of quaint St. Roch’s, 
And my wish will come true, they say, 
Come true to me, as other folks. 

So many things for which to pray, 

And really, if some should come true, 

I might be sorry for this day, 

And this is just the thing I’ll do. 

As my light burns before the shrine, 

My candle burns with all the rest, 

I’ll ask of God, this Christmas time, 

For souls all worshipful, The Best! 


BEHIND THE LATTICE 

October 26, 1893. 

Behind the lattice of Arab House in Street of Cairo, 
Chicago, Ill. 

From window seat, through lattice screen, 

All day I watch a shifting scene, 

As slippered crowds go surging through 
A rift-like street hung o’er with blue. 

On turbaned heads, I listless gaze, 

Then to the Mosque my eyes I raise, 

And then look down, again to meet 
A glance from Hassan on the street. 

The shadow of the minaret 
Points to the hour for worship set. 

To Allah praise, I soft repeat, 

For sight of Hassan on the street. 

But why that tumult down below! 

It strikes my heart with thrill of woe, 

Oh, maidens mourn, for at my feet 
Lies Hassan, dead, upon the street. 



A FAIR PINK PALACE OF JEYPORE 


25 


A FAIR PINK PALACE OF JEYPORE 

When tides of moonlight flood the land, 

I often at my window stand, 

Conveyed in thought to southern zone, 
Beholding towers of pale pink stone. 

It is not of this land or clime, 

A house so fair, but of some clime, 

Where maidens dream on balconies, 

Carved o’er with Lotus traceries. 

Stars shine above the crested wall, 

Where shadows of my maples fall. 

The shadows magnified, the trees 
Seem growths of many centuries. 

A rare and foreign memory 
Touched by the moonlight’s mystery, 

And vines that garland arches o’er, 

Is my Pink Palace of Jeypore. 


THE ’ZARINA’S NECKLACE 

A necklace fair of jewels rare 
I’ll give to my loved Queen. 

Of emeralds fair, the gems most rare, 
Of purest deepest green. 

And flawless shall each jewel be 
In color, shape and size, 

For every year that she has lived 
A gem shall greet her eyes. 

From all the world the buyers came 
Back from their jewel quest, 

And forty emeralds they brought 
For her the ’Tzar loved best. 

Although her jewels far outshone 
The gems of any land, 

The sweet ’Zarina danced with joy 
The emeralds in her hand. 

The fair ’Zarina has her gems 
Of rarest flawless green, 

But more is prized the flawless love 
The ’Tzar has for his Queen. 



26 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 

The peasant woman song writer of East Prussia. 

(1894) 

What does the peasant woman love? 

Light, love and liberty. 

The glory of the stars above 
The fir, the linden tree. 

The cherry blossom and the vine 
’Twined round her cottage door 
The joys of your life, and of mine, 

The wild winds wondrous lore. 

The amber on the Mem’els shore, 

The gift of net and sea. 

The amber of old mythic lore, 

Of lasting witchery. 

Perhaps she never read the tale 
Of Phaeton’s wild ride, 

The Heliades deathless wail 
For him who rashly died. 

But God gave her the gift to sing 
The beautiful and true. 

And in her song breathe sweets of spring 
Besprent with morning dew. 

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 

Oh, singing soul from whence the art 
To hold when dead, the living throng? 

Was it by laying bare thy heart 
And pouring out thy soul in Song? 

Thy soul’s full overflow of bliss 

Sung in Petrarchian form and rhyme, 

Though only of a curl and kiss 

Will live and live, and outlive Time. 

Beyond the isles, beyond the seas, 

Wherever loving hearts are found, 

The Sonnets from the Portuguese 
Are known, and loved the World around. 

Oh, “daughter of the Avon Bard,” 

Thou gavest of thy very best, 

Thy heart was full of fragrant ’Nard, 

Love broke the seal, and Earth was blest. 



OLD WETHERSFIELD 


27 


OLD WETHERSFIELD 

At twilight oft I dream I am a child, 

And, sitting on my gran’ther’s knee, 

I see his soft, white locks, his blue eyes smile, 
And listen, as he talks to me. 

And oft the story was the same he told, 

Of when he was a little boy; 

His father off to war, and times were hard 
And his child heart knew naught of joy. 

His father and his gran’ther soldiers were 
At old Quebec, when Britons won 

The citadel from France, and proud was he, 

As if his hand had held a gun. 

And when the time was right for men to strike 
Against the King, John Barnes was there; 

A soldier for the people, and their rights, 

For having things both true and square. 

He loved to talk of dear Old Wethersfield, 

Of its fair streets, and life, and all 

That makes a town beloved by those who live 
In its imaginary wall. 

I knew the folks by name, the little kinks 
That make a man unlike to one 

Who might be just like him, but for the things 
That make him just himself alone. 

He told how thoughtful all the people were 
How all shared willingly their good 

With households where the men were off to w r ar; 
How all were one fair brotherhood. 

Oh, dear old days! oh, dear Old Wethersfield! 

If I could hear those tales again 

I’d listen to each word—and not hear them, 

As one hears softly falling rain. 


July, 1899. 






ON CALVARY AND OTHER POEMS 









ON CALVARY 

(“The flower is from Calvary.”) 

Dear love, how sweet of you! 

To think of me 

And send a flower that grew 
On Calvary. 

I laid it ’gainst my cheek 
To feel its bloom. 

When, lo! I heard Him speak 
Within the room. 

“My child,” I heard Him say, 

“I thought of thee, 

In that dread, awful day, 

On Calvary; 

At-one-ment there was made 
Upon the tree; 

On me thy sins were laid, 

On Calvary.” 

I raised it to my lips 
In memory 

Of noonday in eclipse 
On Calvary. 

Sweet flower, you bring the place 
Beyond the sea 

So near, I see His face 
Who died for me. 


October 9, 1893. 


THE PERFECT FLOWER 

The name of every sweetest thing 
On earth to Him was given, 

Our Saviour dear, the flower of men, 
When He came down from Heaven. 

For since time first was measured from 
A vast eternity, 

Our Lord stands forth, the perfect flower 
Of earth’s humanity. 


32 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


TOO NEAR 

I think I know in part 

The knowledge came by grace, 
Why God sometimes removes 
The smiling of His face. 

The fair scene when too near 
Its beauty hides from sight. 

The glorious view must have 
The distance, depth and height! 


WHITHER 

We hurry on with mad unrest, 

As arrows take their flight, 
Unerring through the sunny day, 
Straight through the darkest night; 
As swift as weaving shuttles fly— 

It matters not how fast— 

But where the soul shall find itself 
When life’s swift flight is past.” 


THE SEA OF GALILEE 

W'e’ve seen the fishers bring their boats 

Unto the land, 

We’ve seen the fishers mend their nets 

Upon the sand; 

And dreamed of Galilee. 

We’ve seen the sudden storm arise 

And hide the sun, 

We’ve watched the moon shine on the lake 

When day was done; 

And dreamed of Galilee. 

And everywhere the small waves lap 

Upon the strand, 

We hear His voice, we see Him stand 

Beside the sea. 

The little Sea, of Galilee. 



THE PLAIN OF SHARON—THE WIND’S GIFTS 33 


THE PLAIN OF SHARON 

The pasture lands of Sharon sweep 
From mountain to the sea. 

And all the waste is blossomed deep 
With wildings fair to see. 

O’er Bedouin tents the sunshine plays, 
And foam-flecked is the plain, 

As here and there the white flocks graze, 
Just as in David’s reign. 

Ana law between the land and sea 
Is white sand beach and dunes, 

Where wind and wave repeat for me 
The Hebrew shepherd’s tunes. 


THE WIND’S GIFTS 

Oh wind, sweet wind, what do you bring 
From lands afar beyond the seas? 

I bring the song the bulbuls sing 

In fragrant white-flowered myrtle trees. 

What else, oh strong wind, do you bring 
To cheer the day’s sad revery? 

The towers, where once dwelt Salem’s king, 

I kissed, and bring the kiss to thee. 

What else, wave-kissing wind, have you 
Among your gifts to richen me? 

The breath of blossoms, sweet with dew 
From Garden of Gethsemane. 

Oh wind, sweet wind, is there no word 
Of Christ’s, still lingering on the sea? 

Once, when a storm arose, I heard 

The Lord speak, “Peace!” I bring it thee. 

Oh best of all the gifts of thine, 

Thou fleet-winged rover of the sea, 

Is that blest voice, to heart of mine, 

That stilled the storm on Galilee. 



34 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE DAMASK ROSE 

In opening buds of Damask Rose 
Is miracle divine. 

The dew as water is poured in 
And changed to breath of wine. 

The dewy sweet of Damask Rose, 
Brings from the wondrous East 
The day when Christ, the water blest, 
At Cana’s marriage feast. 


THE HILLS ’ROUND NAZARETH 

I love the hollyhocks that grow 
In rows around the lawn, 

Whose blossoms vie with morning clouds 
At waking of the dawn. 

And one, a head above the rest, 

Can look beyond the wall; 

She sees the wonders of the world, 

And tells the tale to all. 

Most eager faces turn to her, 

They almost hold their breath, 

As slow she says, “I think I see 
The hills ’round Nazareth. 

“And kin of ours are growing there, 

In happy freedom wild, 

In byway and in pasture land, 

Where Jesus was'a child.” 

I wish that I could climb and see 
The world beyond the wall, 

And know if they grow there as here, 

So beautiful and tall. 

But then ’tis sweet that they should grow 
In garden ways for me, 

Who cannot hope to see their bloom 
In blessed Galilee. 



A CEDAR OF LEBANON—THE OTHER ROOM 35 


A CEDAR OF LEBANON 

(Written for the Syria Ten.) 

Oh, Lord, we pray that thou wilt hear 
The prayer we bring to Thee, 

That we each in our place may grow 
Fair as a cedar tree. 

Upon the heights of Lebanon 
His lofty cedars grow, 

Whence rivers rise and carry joy 
To summer lands below. 

Their heads are lifted up to touch 
The sky of Syrian blue. 

The presence of the clouds to them 
Is ever freshening dew. 

“The trees of God are full of sap,” 

His trees are fair and strong, 

And in their spreading branches nest 
The birds of sweetest song. 

The choice was not the oak or palm 
For altar, beams and wall 

Of Temple for the Holy One 
But cedars straight and tall. 

Oh, may we each grow strong and fair 
For His eternity, 

Fit in His temple to be built, 

A chosen cedar tree. 


THE OTHER ROOM 

She’s only in the other room, 

But God has shut the door; 

And though I knock and call to her 
It will not open more. 

I wish she could come back to me, 
From out the other room, 

For when she went she took the light 
And left me in the gloom. 



36 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


MEMORIAL DAY 

At the call of the King, 

Came each man into place, 
With his life in his hand 
To meet death face to face. 

Deck their graves with green bay, 
Drop the flags at half mast, 

Do them honor to-day, 

Time’s old heroes recast. 

Not in vain, oh, thou slain, 

Was thy dying fore-willed, 

Was home left, love bereft 
And life’s dreams unfulfilled. 

Tho’ to fame all unknown, 

But because thou wert true, 
Shall for time thy name shine 
As the stars in the blue. 

Though no stone mark the grave, 
Drop a rose, just the same. 
Soldier true, ’tis his due— 

The King knows him by name. 

Aye, by name, he knows each, 
Who came quick at his call. 
Though to mark where they sleep 
The sod rounded, is all. 

And their waves o’er each grave, 
Dear Old Glory in bloom, 

And our nation’s saved banner 
Keeps a guard o’er each tomb. 

The King’s record is writ, 

And the record is true 
Of those who wrought bravely 
The deeds given to do. 

Tell the Battle tales oft, 

In the long coming years, 

That the Peace that is ours 
Came by blood and by tears. 

Deck their graves with green bay, 
Drop the flags at half mast, 

Do them honor, to-day, 

Time’s old heroes recast. 




ETERNITY 


37 


ETERNITY 

The ears are stopped, they cannot hear. 

The eyes are closed, they cannot see. 

The lips are sealed. The soul has gone 
Into Eternity. 

The house-key’s given back to Him. 

Who to the tenant loaned the key. 

The lease is out. The soul has gone 
Into Eternity. 

The gate swings out, to let them pass 
That bear the dust from human eye, 

Swings back and locks. The soul has gone 
Into Eternity. 


HER GRAVE 

I’m glad no stone mausoleum 
Shuts sunshine from her grave, 

But over it the shadows flit, 

And flowering grasses wave. 

’Tis very sweet when springtime comes 
With freshly-greening sod, 

To read thereon, in violets, 

The promises of God. 

The mound o’er which the robins sing 
And winds of winter rave, 

Is dearest spot on this green earth 
Although it is a grave. 

WHEN I SHALL PASS MY GRAVE 

She seems beside me as I walk, 

I listen and I hear her talk, 

She says, what oft she’s said before— 
Alas, I’ll never hear her more, 

For she is in her grave. 

But, one day, I shall cross the line 
That separates her world from mine, 
Then eagerly I’ll scan her face 
To see if Heaven’s added grace, 

When I shall pass my grave. 



38 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


ROSA DAMASCENA 

Sweet damask rose, fair chalices 
To hold God’s gift of dew, 

Are buds of thine, as fair as when 
They first in Eden grew. 

Thou makest earth sweet as the house 
At Bethany, when filled 
With odor of the precious ’nard 
The day ’twas freshly spilled. 

Forgotten is the wealth of musk 
In St. Sophia’s mosque, 

When Damask roses fill with sweet, 
The summer’s green kiosk. 

Oh! sweetest, fairest damask rose, 

I strew fresh leaves of thine 
Upon her grave—and when I die 
Shake down thy bloom on mine! 



SONGS OF EVERY DAY 
AS LIFE GOES SINGING ON ITS WAY 
























































































































































THE WITHERED LEAF 

From the French of Antoine Victor Arnautt. 

Poor leaf, broken from thy bough, 

Whither wilt thou voyage now? 

Since the storm the oak o’erthrew 
Where I in my beauty grew, 

At the inconstant winds’ behest, 

From the North, or from the West, 

I drift whither I am blown, 

All the way to me unknown. 

Since I left the great oak tree, 

Ways are all alike to me, 

From the mountain to the vale, 

Without fear and without wail, 

Since winds bear me to repose 
With the laurel and the rose. 

At the Cottage, 186-. 

LOVE SEEKETH NOT HER OWN 

Who is she, that 'mong women seems so fair 
That she is named the fairest one of all 
The royal daughters of the Heavenly King; 

Whose eyes are soft as dove’s eyes, in the songs 
Of Solomon; whose brows are bound about 
With roses, which have caught the glowing hue 
Of sunrise in the clouds of early dawn; 

The music of whose voice is to the ear 
As is the lulling sound of falling rain 
Unto the grass whose roots thirst unto death; 

Whose presence is by inner sense discerned 
As quickly as is felt the coming rain, 

When softly south winds sough thro’ mourning pines; 
Whose smile pervades with joy as when the vine 
In bloss’ming loads the dew and dusk with sweet; 
Whose footsteps bring forth flowers upon the earth; 
Whose hands are full of blessings without price; 

Who soweth gifts of love as God sows light; 

Who walks the ways of life in glistering white, 

Like that seen by the three upon the mount; 

Who keeps her life in Heaven, while on earth 
She seeketh joy for others, not for self? 

Oh, she who’s named the fairest one of all 
The royal daughters of the King, is Love! 


42 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


ORION 

If night shall find me sleeping 
’Neath palm-tree-shaded mound, 

In land where day and dark is 
The same the year around. 

Magnificent Orion, 

The giant of the sky, 

Will watch, while I am sleeping, 

The grave wherein I lie. 

O’er graves in royal Greenwood, 

O’er graves in Afric’s sand, 

The stately constellation 

Keeps watch by God’s command. 

And, if my Lord should call me, 

E’er dawn came, with the light 
’Twould be a homelike waking 
The sword-and-belt in sight. 

September 27, 1894. 

“Little did I think when I read your poem on Orion 
to Mrs Menkel, she would so soon be lying beneath the 
little mound, overshadowed by palm trees. Had she 
remained in America, Greenwood would have been her 
last resting place—for her home was in Brooklyn, but 
even here the giant constellation is watching over her 
grave, and the glorious Southern Cross shines on it too 
in all its heavenly beauty.—Benito, W. Africa.” 


ALONE 

Man’s birth and death are solemn 
Mysteries, 

Alone he comes, alone he goes to 
God. 

Alone each soul must try life’s 
verities, 

Each by himself must pass beneath 
the rod. 



A SIGN TO HOLD-WINE OF ROSES 


43 


A SIGN TO HOLD 

The stone is cold, 

Above the mold. 

Below the mold, 

Her hands are cold. 

The wind blows cold 

Across the wold, 

And joys we hold 

We closer fold. 

The world is cold 

And life seems old, 

Since Death came stoled 

And church bells tolled. 
But lo! behold. 

A daisy bold, 

With heart of gold, 

Springs from the mold,— 
A sign to hold, 

Hope to embold, 

From hands so cold, 

Beneath the mold. 


WINE OF ROSES 

The soul and body in life are wed, 

But with finer drink and whiter bread 
Than is given the body, the soul is fed. 

And fragrance of wild rose in the room 
Is a sweet soul-wine in grail of bloom, 
Which mellowed in vault of forest gloom. 

The bosky sweet of the rose pale pink 
Of summer woods is a draught, I think 
Meet for the mythical gods to drink. 

Here’s health to the soul, the beaker fill, 
And whosoever may quaff at will, 

The rose-red wine that is perfume still. 

In breath of bloom from blossoming sod, 
“Lachrymas Christi” is poured abroad 
For souls that are thirsting after God. 



44 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


INDIVIDUALITY 

Some lilies are all gold and white, 

Some red, a Titian hue, 

With tiger spots, some charm the sight, 
And, rarest, some are blue. 

How came it, from the common mold, 
That they so different grew? 

And how, through centuries untold, 
Have they been color true? 

’Tis manifest that God hath said, 

Each its own self shall be, 

And by His law gold, white and red, 
Keep their identity. 


LOST IS THE SEEING FACULTY 

The roses are as sweet, to-day, 

As when Eve smiled on the first rose. 
The lark still sings the same sweet lay 
That to the dawn, at first uprose. 

But traffic’s din hath dulled the ear, 

And gold hath dimmed the eye to see 
The glories of the far or near; 

Lost is the seeing faculty. 

The poet charms no more from care, 

With pristine song, and lute as when 
Life with less wants, and simpler fare 
Made poets of the sons of men. 


THE COUNTESS OF BATH 

(So little do we know—) 

Fair Lady Laura, when you donned your hat 
To take a walk that summer afternoon, 

You never could have guessed your face and hat 
Would grace the handle of a silver spoon. 

So little do we know what things shall be 
In days to come. The fashion of a gown, 

A grace of speech, oft reappears, to be 
The pride and admiration of the town. 



THE SONG IN THE SHELL—AN IVORY SPOOL 4 5 


THE SONG IN THE SHELL 

Lives a song in the shell 
Like a star in a well. 

It is hidden from sight, 

From the day and the light, 

But the swash of the waves 
Can be heard in the caves 
Of the sea, as the ear 
To the shell is held near. 

But the soul, in the tone 
Hears a soft sobbing moan, 

For the song in the shell 
Is held there by a spell. 

’Tis forever its fate 
To be prisoned in state, 

In a palace of pearl 

From its mate, the Song Merle. 


AN IVORY SPOOL 

Her work-box held an ivory spool 
That came from far-away Stamboul; 

The silk was wound off years ago, 

And left the spool a curio. 

’Twas finely finished, white as milk, 

A dainty thing, and only silk 

From little hands, which held the skein, 

Was wound upon the spool again. 

For some long-past, forgotten Yule, 

Dear hands with silk drawn off the spool 
Wrought blossoms on a veil of lace 
To make a shadow round the face. 

The tale was one of witchery 
About that old embroidery, 

And never lost aught of its gold, 
However often it was told. 

Oft now I seem to see her sit, 

Her work-box near, to sew or knit; 

And, begging tales of old Stamboul, 

A child holds fast an ivory spool. 



46 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


A DESERTED MUSIC STAND 

As empty as a last year’s nest, 

It stood outside the town. 

We caught the sight as in the West 
The night came darkling down. 

A band stand in a village square, 
Where paths thro’ long grass wound. 

In summer time it might been fair 
When left—forsaken ground! 

And oft, as now, we cross the land 
And pass some shadow dark, 

We seem to see that lonesome stand 
In that forsaken park. 


A DAY WITH MY BOOKS 

What can I say 
Of this fair day 

Whose hours have slipped so silently 
Into a vast eternity, 

Now, that those hours have gone away? 

From recessed nooks 
I brought my books 

Into a chosen place of shade, 

A window seat where breezes played, 
And read, and read, till twilight grey. 

I heard the beat 
Upon the street, 

The clatter and the constant roar, 

Like waves that break on pebbled shore, 
As it were leagues and leagues away. 

For in high towers, 

And rosy bowers; 

Or fighting o’er the wars of France, 

Or gainst the heathen breaking lance, 
I’ve passed the long bright summer day. 

At twilight’s kiss 
I can say this; 

My books returned, each to its shelf, 
And back to dust each warring Guelph, 
My life is richer for this day! 



MY SAETER LAND—YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW 47 


MY SAETER LAND 

Three chimneys and a bit of sky, 
And hill fields fair to see, 

Where all the changing year goes by 
A color symphony. 


This little rift between the walls 
Of brick on either hand 
Is from the dawn, till twilight falls, 
To me, a Saeter Land. 


Here thro’ the long bright days, I see 
The waving grass and grain, 

Wind tossed into a billowy sea— 
Green billows of the main. 

Oh, lonesome would the outlook be 
Without this Saeter view, 

The hills my glass gives aid to see 
Beneath a sky of blue. 


YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW 

On the mountain, lately kissed 
By the sunshine, lies a mist. 

Wild the wind doth shake the trees, 
Scattering the burning leaves. 

Lost the vision of the hills, 

Empty nests a silence fills, 

And my heart is far away— 

Oh! if it were yesterday. 

When to-morrow’s sun shines down, 
Glorifying all the town, 

Lighting up each spire and dome, 
And the windows of each home, 

Will I at the window stand 
With my face upon my hand 
And my heart so far away— 
Wishing for a yesterday? 



48 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


A DAY IS LIKE A CEDARN CHEST 

A day is like a cedarn chest, 

A loving hand doth fill 
With gifts, the sweetest and the best 
In secret drawer and till. 

The key turns softly in the lock, 

Beneath the carven lid 
A wedding gown, a baby’s sock, 

In scented depths lie hid. 

Deft hands undo with reverence, 

The gifts, from dawn till dusk, 

That fill the house with opulence 
Of lavender and musk. 


ABOVE THE SNOW LINE 

(Edelweiss) 

The mountain tops are capped with snow, 
While in the meadow lands below 
The summer roses sweetly blow. 

The lofty peaks affrighten those 
Who love the valley and the rose, 

Who would have life without its snows. 


No tender flower of summer dare 
To brave in bloom the frosty air 
Of mountain top, so white and bare. 

But, fearless of the frozen ground 
Above the snow, in velvet gowned, 
The lover’s eidelweiss is found. 


Flower of the heights, so fair and bold, 
You make me fearless of the cold; 

You charm my heart from growing old. 



A PEN-SIVE REVERIE—BEYOND 


49 


A PEN-SIVE REVERIE 

Oh, Nelly, will you bring my pen? 

I have a thought that I would write. 

Perchance it may not come again— 

My thoughts so suddenly take flight. 

Ah, well do I remember, when 
I learned to write, exactly how 

The copy looked: the feathered pen— 

Known only by its picture now— 

That formed the letters with such care— 

The oddest letters ever born— 

And often needed deft repair 

And quick from nib to plume was worn. 

Then came my lover days, and I 

Wrote love-letters; my love took pains, 

Well, now it is no matter why, 

To save them through three years’ campaigns. 

If memory serves, the pen was gold— 

My mother’s gift—which, dipt in dew 

Of morning, in old measures told 
The story that is ever new. 

Then with a pen of steel I wrote, 

Oft wishing ’twere a bayonet, 

Sometimes a lovely little note, 

Sometimes a homely sermonette. 

Why is my Nelly gone so long? 

Ah, there’s that handsome John again! 

Well, well, the world will lose a song 
If she forgets to bring my pen. 


BEYOND 

Each night our lives sail on, beyond 
The things we loved in yesterday, 

And souls sigh not for pine or frond 
Of palm, from whence we sail away. 

The east from west is not so far 

As griefs that late made hearts despond, 
When we have passed the evening star 
As we sail on to life beyond. 



50 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE WEATHER VANE 

It’s company when wild winds blow 
To watch a weather vane, 

Whose gilded steed curvets and turns, 
Just like a thing insane. 

But when the winds are quieted 
The jockey rides more slow. 

And quick or slow as winds may change, 
The jockey turns just so. 

Hearts, too, are often weather-wise 
Beyond the thing inane, 

Discerning whence come smiling skies 
Or days of teary rain. 


’ZIEL’S FLUTE 

An honored place has ’Ziel’s flute, 

With gran’ther’s book of song, 

Her violin and other things 
That to the past belong. 

I never saw him, for he died, 

Oh, long before my time. 

But I’ve been told that he was skilled 
In law, and song and rhyme. 

I only know him by his books, 

His letters and his flute, 

’Tis sure I’d loved him, for these things 
My taste exactly suit. 

A man cannot be better known 
Than by the books he reads. 

These give the key to all the life, 

Which blossoms into deeds. 

In him was centered such high hopes, 

And his own hopes were high. 

Just as he won his golden spurs, 

How sad that he should die. 

The sound of flute ceased on that day, 

It missed his lips’ salute. 

With tender care—years three score gone, 
I keep dear ’Ziel’s flute. 


Troy Budget 



AN OLD HAVELOCK 


51 


AN OLD HAVELOCK 

Perhaps, if truth were all contest, 

The Havelock in grandma’s chest 
Has not been kept by simple chance, 
But is a bit of real romance. 

Who wore it? Was he young and tall 
Who answered war’s wild bugle call? 

Or were lips bearded, grim, and gray, 
That kissed her when he went away? 

To shield from sun intense ’twas made, 
All bound about with dark blue braid: 
And round the thing so like a hood 
Cling thoughts as sweet as sandal wood. 


Beneath a fervid foreign sky 
I see a hooded host pass by, 

I wonder could she tell by sight 
Which was her own white-hooded knight? 

I wonder did he live or die 
Beneath that burning Southern sky? 
Much as I wish I cannot know, 

It happened all so long ago. 


DEAR HEART LET US BE BLITHE AND GAY 

Bright in the blue flit shining wings, 

But better loved the bird that sings, 

Dear Heart, let’s choose the better things. 

’Tis true some days in every year 
To save from sun blight must be drear, 

But when it’s bright, why mourn for fear. 


Sad, fretting care loves not to stay 
Where laughter fills the hours of day. 
Dear Heart, let us be blithe and gay. 




52 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


“MELONS FROM SPAIN” 
“PEACHES FROM SOUTH AFRICA” 

Oh, with apples, bring me comfort, 

Sang the wise man in his day. 

And for generations after 

All men sang the wise man’s way. 

But we long no more for apples 
Be they gold, or red, or white. 

From old Spain, we cry for melons, 

With their tempting of delight. 

From old Spain we cry for melons 
And we wish and wish again 

For the splendid globes of sweetness, 

Rare sweet melons from old Spain. 

In the world is no more distance, 

No near lands or far remain, 

As there were before the steamships 
Swiftly swept the salt-sea main. 

And for us, fair Afric peaches, 

On the plate when’ere we dine, 

Lie beside the red pomegranate 
From the land of Palestine. 

Yet unsatisfied our hearts are, 

And desire repeats the strain; 

Nothing evermore will comfort 
But sweet melons from old Spain. 


ABIDE 

(John xv, 7) 

’Bide in his sunshine, love, 

And in the light rejoice. 

Give to the winds a song 
And to thy thoughts a voice. 

O’er sea and desert sands 
His cloud and pillar guide. 
Pour forth thy soul in song, 
’Tis thine but to abide. 



AN EVER-BLOOMING ROSE—AT TROY FEM. SEM. 53 


AN EVER BLOOMING ROSE 

International Sunshine Society. 

I wish I could do something sweet 
To please the Lord, my King, 

It is so blest to serve the Lord, 

Though in the least small thing. 

A single word said for His sake 
Has riven clouds of gloom, 

Has proven balm for sorrow’s ache 
And changed eternal doom. 

I wish I could but pull a rose 
To give the Lord of Light, 

But gentle deeds I know are fair 
As roses in His sight. 

And if to God I give my life 
Each day until its close, 

Each deed and thought He can transmute 
Into a blooming rose. 

AT TROY FEM. SEM. 

I see again the long, low halls, 

The doors on either side, 

And after study noon and night 
The doors swing open wide. 

’Tis noon, and groups adown the hall 
In eager waiting stand, 

For there comes “Miss Man waring dear,” 
With letters in her hand. 

Sweet memories! for new halls rise, 

Love’s fair memorials. 

And girls of long ago are crowned 
With silver coronals. 

A rose they wear, those crowned heads, when 
On festive days they meet, 

And Catherine Mermet’s beauty bows 
At Emma Willard’s feet. 

One day will be the last of life, 

The turmoil end in calm; 

Then may each one of Troy Fern. Sem. 
Exchange the Rose for Palm. 

March 18th, 1893. 

Written for the Troy Daily Times. 



54 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE LOVING CUP 

Sung at the Emma Willard Banquet, 1896. 
(Tune—“Auld Lang Syne.”) 

The cup with roses wreathed is passed 
From gentle hand to hand, 

And as the silver brim is touched 
Each sees a far-off land. 

Chorus 

The wine of joy that fills the cup, 
Almost to brimming o’er, 

Brings to the lips the taste again 
Of joys that are no more. 

The rose leaves float upon the cup, 

Like hopes of long ago, 

Ere they, like roses, felt the frost 
And slept beneath the snow. 

Chorus 

The wine of joy that fills the cup, 
Almost to brimming o’er, 

Brings to the lips the taste again 
Of joys that are no more. 

Oh, memory is the Loving Cup 
That’s filled with joy to-day, 

And rarer is this wine of joy 
Than richest of Tokay. 

Chorus 

The wine of joy that fills the cup 
Almost to brimming o’er 
Brings to the lips the taste again 
Of joys that are no more. 



FAIR AS A ROSE 


55 


It Is Rose Time 

A recalling of the Troy Female Seminary life in other days. 


FAIR AS A ROSE 

I pull a Catherine Mermet Rose 
And pin it on my gown; 

The rose of Emma Willard School 
Of far and fair renown. 

And sweeter than the scent of rose, 

Though royal flower of flowers, 

The memory of books and songs 
And happy study hours. 

Oh, rose of fragrance, magical 
To bring back "Long Ago,” 

To turn the prow of sailing boat 
Against the river’s flow. 

And contrary to sailing lore 
To drift against the tide 
And safely, by some magic still, 

Into closed harbors glide. 

The harbors sailed from "Long Ago!” 

There on the waves still sleep, 

The roses that we threw away, 

A harvest for the deep. 

Oh, there we find them all again, 

And we ourselves are young, 

As in those days, or ever tears 
Had from our hearts been wrung. 

Fair as a rose the memory. 

Of days when we were girls, 

And learned that Wisdom’s riches were 
’Bove rubies, gold or pearls. 

Fair as a rose the memory 
Of sweet successes when 
We chose the work we wished to do 
With pencil or with pen. 

Oh, fair the walks, within the wall, 

Where always, two and two, 

We walked and talked on "boards” or “bricks,” 
Of what we were to do. 



56 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Oh, fair the life secluded thus 
From all that life annoys, 

Within the shadow of the park 
That stilled the City’s noise. 

And then, when home from boarding school, 
Freed from the garden-close, 

A glance discerned the girl had changed, 

The bud was ’most a rose. 

Fair is the rose when blossoming, 

Its petals sweet and pink— 

But lovelier far is womanhood 
That has been trained to think. 

Oh, sweet it is to love the things 
That made the springtime glad; 

The heart brimful of Hope and Trust 
Keeps life from growing sad. 

Oh, happy Emma Willard girls, 

Who in that garden close 

Grew to a gracious blossoming, 

The daughters of the Rose. 


Troy Budget. 



EMMA WILLARD’S TEMPLE OF FAME 


57 


EMMA WILLARD’S TEMPLE OF FAME 

Fair madam’s face, with turban crown 
(A century since, it was the style) 

From marble pedestal looks down 
As generations pass the while. 

Her face, with pride of conquests won, 

An inspiration is to deeds 
More mighty than have yet been done, 

And in those conquests still she leads. 


She grasped the stars in her high thought 
That womanhood could far outdo 
The works that yet her hands had wrought 
And bring about the woman new. 

She planned a “Temple” of “all Time.” 

Its columns rose in classic grace, 

But scarce a woman’s name for rhyme 
Or rule was given there a place. 

But for the “rainbow” and the “star” 
That in the world’s beginning shone 
The long, long centuries in the far 
Dim distances were sad and lone. 


Byzantine Anna Comnena 
For learning rose to eminence; 

Elizabeth and Isabella 

Were later given prominence. 

But men for dreary time held sway 

All down the centuries’ columned aisles, 

As if the world from Time’s first day 
Had not been ruled by woman’s smiles. 

She builded better than she knew 

When she upreared her Hall of Fame, 

And we her daughters, dear and true, 

Will there inscribe her royal name. 


Troy Budget. 



58 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


MY DESK 

So plain, so small it seems to you, 

The desk at which I write, 

You hardly would believe it true 
How air-lines here unite. 

How each small thing within my reach 
(Some kept for old sake’s sake) 

In many tongues, of this world’s speech, 

A message bring, or take. 

The letter-opener came to me 
From Porto Rico’s isle, 

A quaint small thing from over sea, 

A knife of dagger style. 

The alder penholder was sent 
By a professor grave. 

’Tis crookt as o’er the brook it bent 
Where meadow waters lave. 

The golden pen—a lover’s gift 
(This of my specs is true.) 

The sand box over ink to sift 
Shows how folks use to do. 

The letters with strange stamps from yon, 
The Persian lion and sun, 

King Edward with his ermine on, 

In palest carmine done. 

The flower my Lady Sunshine wore 
The day that she was here 
Was quick transferred with things galore 
Unto my desk so dear. 

A picture of the Taj to-day, 

Where wealth was wildly spent, 

Has spirited by soul away 
’Cross sea and continent. 

’Tis pictures, pots of ink, and pick 
Of pens, and office paste 
In small paint-tube, so span and spick 
It suits my lady’s taste. 

These are the air-lines that unite— 

A wonderful combine— 

To bring the wide world into sight 
By this small desk of mine. 



MY HOUR GLASS—A MOUNTAIN HEIGHT 


59 


MY HOUR GLASS 

It rains; I turn my hour glass up 
And watch the sliding sand 
As moccasined the hours steal by 
Into the silent land. 

And speeding without wing or sail, 

A rainless land I see, 

Whence came these sands from desert drifts 
For this hour’s company. 

No tree is there, no song of bird, 

No fountains flash in air, 

The splendor of the sun hath made 
A desert everywhere. 

Be glad, my lonesome heart, for rain, 

For tears that olind the eyes. 

Sweet life is burned to desertness 
Where sunshine ever lies. 

A MOUNTAIN HEIGHT 

Oh, blest are they who reach life’s mountain heights. 
Oh! fine and clear the air of sunlit peaks 
Above the stormy clouds. To childhood’s eyes 
The dazzling snow-crowned summits seemed so cold 
And far away. Then I knew not that I 
Could carry up the June within my heart; 

That to the snowline I could take hands full 
Of roses gathered in the vales below. 

Oh! never are the rose smells quite so sweet 
As when they steal upon us in a storm 
And tell us somewhere summer lingers yet. 

How beautiful the view from this fair height! 

Here from this coign of vantage can be seen 
Far back to days when gently by the hand 
My mother led me and was all in all. 

And on before to where death’s river winds, 

Beyond which lies my goodly heritage. 

This mountain is to me the Moor’s last sigh, 

For from this point I must go down to meet 
The sunset’s kiss upon the dark, dark waves 
That lave the shore and make no lapping sound. 

And here I pray that God will give to me 
A long and sunny afternoon f or praise, 

Fair as the morning was for precious work. 

July 23. 




60 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE VANISHED DAYS 

The days they come and go as guests 
That bide but over night; 

They travel with the sun till dusk 
And vanish with the light. 

The sun returns with all the pomp 
With which at first he came, 

But never has a day come back 
To bless us or to blame. 

Arcturus and the Pleiades 
Return each year the same, 

The robin in the apple tree 
Builds on a last year’s claim. 

The rain, its falling and return 
Is like an endless chain. 

I wonder where the days all go 
That they come not again. 

They come not back. But we shall find 
Them all at God’s right hand 

(Or, maybe, on the other side, 

Whichever side we stand). 

The days are there, the leaves of time 
Bound up as they have flown, 

And we shall see each day again 
Before the great white throne. 


Each volume its own mark will bear 
(Our book-plate in each book), 
That we shall know our very own 
The instant that we look, 

And we shall greeting give to each 
Of joy, or maybe pain, 

According on which side we find 
Our precious days again. 



QUATRAINS 


61 


QUATRAINS 

Service: 

Serve thine own generation with thy best! 

Then, passing on, trust unto God the rest. 

If to thy work he gives life past its day 
A thornless rose shall mark thee ’mong the blest. 

Joyousness: 

Seek to give joy if thou wouldst joyous be. 

Then will thy life flow on as merrilie 
As mountain brooks, that make the meadows green 
As they go down with laughter to the sea. 

The Ship: 

On land the ship is builded for the sea. 

But unfulfilled its fate till it is free 

From earthly ties; When launched upon the wave 

It never more a thing of earth can be. 

The Blessing: 

“The loaves bring unto me,” the Master said. 

He blessed them and the hungry thousands fed. 
Thy gold and talents bring, and, blessed, their power 
To serve will be increased, as was the bread. 

The Time is Short: 

Life seems so short for all the heart would do, 
Between the call at Dawn and “Allah Hu,” 

Yet long enough to prove the Damask steel. 

Full long for each to choose the pure and true. 

This Way but Once: 

In ways oft smooth, in ways more often rough, 

We heap up treasure, then we guard the stuff. 

The heart and feet are often pierced with pain 
As we pass this way once. Ah, ’tis enough! 

Dust to Dust: 

The marbles crumble, and the bright swords rust. 
In ruin heaps lies low the sculptured bust. 
Thoughts only in immortal beauty bloom, 

While all earth’s glories turn again to dust. 

Who’ll Tell the Wind: 

Who’ll tell the wind I’ve gone when I am dead, 
That it may tell lov’d roses, white and red, 

And birds belov’d, and brooks, that they may sing 
A requiem, when by the wind it’s said. 













GARDEN WAYS AND FIELD DAYS 








GARDEN WAYS AND FIELD DAYS 


Come into the Garden and the Fields 
With me, and I will pull and tie 
“A posy” for you 
Of the blossoms, both of the 
Garden flowers and the 
Wildings— 


SPRING 

The Spring is coming, I know it, I heard, 

This very morning, the song of a bird. 

The little girl’s out with her skipping rope 
Tripping along in the gladness of hope. 

The stilts and the marbles are all about 
The sunshine has drawn the dear old tnings out, 
A hoop rolls along, as tall as the boy 
Who trudges ’longside, the essence of joy. 

The Spring is coming, I know it. I heard 
This very morning the song of a bird. 

There’s never a welcome like this to the Fall, 
Never a skipping-rope when the leaves fall, 
Never a hoop or a stilt or such thing, 

Never in Autumn, when birds cease to sing. 

Is the heart of a child like the heart of a bird 
That hears His call and adoring, when heard 
Fares forth to the field, singing merrily 
As up goes the sap to the top of the tree? 
Spring’s coming I know it, to-night on high 
I saw a Red-breast against the blue sky. 


COLTS-FOOT 

Before a single leaf of green 
On branch of forest tree is seen, 

Up springs a tender little thing, 

The earliest wilding of the Spring. 

In golden gown ’tis richly dight, 

And lifts its head so brave and bright, 
That waiting eyes with gladness weep, 
When little Colts-foot wakes from sleep. 


66 


THE LAND OF HE ART-REST 


THE FIRST BOUQUET 

A Bit or an Old Letter 

’Tis spring; a bird is singing on a tree,— 

A song of glad rejoicing that the cold 
Has fled away. The south door’s open wide 
To let the welcome sunshine enter in. 

And I am glad, as ever was a bird, 

The days of desolate white cold are past. 

Be glad with me; it did not touch my heart; 
’Twould been my death. The violets I’ve loved 
Through all the cold, and saved from cruel frosts 
By blanketing in paper every night 
Are blossoming. Each new and tender leaf 
Has been a cheering prophecy of spring. 

A simple Johnny-jump-up, that is all. 

But oh! the comfort that it’s been to me. 
Through all the hours of darkest winter days, 
This lesson, by example, it has taught,— 

To reach toward light, howe’er untoward may be 
\ Surrounding circumstance, for beauteous growth. 
A first bouquet is by me as I write. 

A little bunch of ground pine and gray moss, 

Red stems of rose and yellow willow twigs, 

With branch’, of dark green tassels from a pine. 

I think the rose and willow twigs have felt 
The sunshine’s kiss, the color is so bright. 

You know one can, wherever one is placed, 

Find pleasantness and beauty, if one seeks, 

And I my dearest, have not sought in vain. 

Cold Spring Cottage, March 21, 186-. 


THE BIRD’S NEST 

The birds in their solicitude 
About a cradle for their brood. 

Use with a fine instinctive taste 
The things that we have counted waste. 
A lining’s made of soft grey hair, 

Old lace inwrought to make it fair, 

And thus by art most curious 
The bird’s nest is. luxurious. 




THE UNFOLDING 


67 


THE UNFOLDING 

All the day long goes on the unpacking 
Of the quaintest, shining brown valises. 

Much creased are the contents by close packing, 
But the wind will shake out all the creases, 

Till from every tree, 

Far as eye can see, 

Hang pale, gold.flowrets and leaflets of green, 

The royal colors of the Summer’s Queen. 

Oh, my heart, with the joy of a child, be glad! 
The time for green leaves is no time to be sad. 
Red-breast and blue bird are here with their song, 
and green leaves— 

The green leaves we’ve wished for so long! 


THE WATER WILLOW 

With lustrous pearls, in springtime, 

The water willow’s crowned. 

And all along the brook side 
Pearl blossom’g wands abound. 

The Brook laughs over stones, but naught 
A vision can efface— 

For in the Brook the willow left 
The shadow of her face— 


THE BLUES 

A little blue feather 

From a blue bird’s wing. 

He found in the meadow 
Where the blue birds sing. 

The fringed gentian flower, 

A wee, blue-eyed thing, 

Matched the blue feather 
From the blue bird’s wing. 

And a dainty, blue shell, 
Washed up by the sea, 

Makes three pretty blue things 
My love hath brought me. 




68 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


DAFFODILS 

Oh! answer, sweet and golden daffodils, 

As my heart questions of the land of graves, 

From whence ye come? Oh! child, whose heart 
with grief 

Is burdened, hear: My beauty fled away, 

My green leaves withered and my stalk dried up. 
They said I died, and hid me in the ground. 

’Tis written in the Word that all may read, 

"Thou so west not that body that shall be,” 

But simply grain, perchance it may be wheat, 

And from the root grows well-known leaf and sheaf. 
It was a root that lay beneath the sod, 

And yet my very self, my golden flower, 

The blossom which the spring winds love to kiss, 
That slept and sweetly dreamed within the dark, 

Of yet another spring when I should wake. 

And if we waked not as we went to sleep, 

How could you say, "My daffodils have come?” 

But tell me how you gained release at last 

From that dark land where you were bound by sleep? 

I heard a voice say, "Daffodils, arise!” 

The bonds of sleep were broken and I rose, 

But can the dead hear, when their names are called? 
"She is not dead, but sleepeth,” said the Lord, 

Of Jairus’ daughter, when they called her dead, 

And they that sleep can wakened be from sleep! 

Sweet flowers of sunshine, golden daffodils, 

You bring sweet cheer and comfort to my soul, 

And ye do know of sleep, for ye have slept. 


DAWN AND DUSK 

Oh summer morn, cool and serene, 

Oh summer eve, and purple dusk, 

Oh fair the day that flows between 
Sweet-storied as the river Usk. 

My soul uplifts a joyous psalm 
When dawn brings down a glad new day, 
But to my soul comes holy calm 
When purple dusk bears it away. 



THE SOUTH WIND—CHERRY BLOOM 


69 


THE SOUTH WIND 

The summer wind is blowing soft 
Up from the South. 

It fans my brow, and kisses me 
Upon my mouth. 

Oh, soft wind blowing from the South 
We’ve- waited long 

For thy sweet kiss, arbutus bloom 
And oriole’s song. 

With thee fair wind from summer land 
Come dreams of bliss; 

Forgotten all the waiting drear 
With thy first kiss. 


CHERRY BLOOM 

We sat at meat, low bowed each head 
As reverent lips gave thanks for bread, 
And when we lifted up our eyes 
They met a rare and sweet surprise. 

For sandall’d feet had lightly kissed 
The threshold that their steps had missed 
As May winds filled the morning room 
With sweet breath of the cherry bloom. 

They greeted us with heavenly grace 
As each, where once a chair had place 
Came round the board to break the fast 
With us as in the blessed past. 

"Go, Mabel, close the door; maybe 
These then will bide with thee and me!” 
But when the subtle fragrance fled 
We knew our souls had seen the dead. 

A finer sense than sight is given 
To know our visitants from heaven, 

Who throng around us everywhere 
When favorite blossoms scent the air. 



70 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


BLOOD-ROOT BLOSSOMS 

When the April sky is seen, 

When the winter’s feet have sped, 
Waking from her sleep serene, 

Pushing off her cap of green, 
Sanguinaria lifts her head. 

Something in her pale moon face, 

’Tis the Lord that made her so, 
Shows the blue blood of her race, 

As she rises in her place, 

Ere green leaves have time to grow. 

But where broken stems are found, 
There’s a broken heart in spring, 
There is blood upon the ground, 
Oozing from an ugly wound, 

Little song birds, sadly sing! 


DAISY 

Daisy, daisy, sweetly blowing 
By the way we oft are going, 

I love you much, I love you well, 

I love how much I cannot tell. 

Thou grow’st wild, thou grow’st sweet, 
Thou’rt like a star, dropt at out feet. 
Open eyed, with wonder mild, 

Thou art most like a little child. 

For daisy chains content to grow, 

A meadow weed where mowers mow, 

I love you much, I love you well, 

I love how much I cannot tell— 


THE THOUGHTS OF GOD 

How beautiful God’s thoughts, as seen 
In summer fields of matchless green, 
When from the sod the blossoms rise 
And wave sweet incense to the skies. 

And when the great blue dome of night 
With gems innumerable is bright, 

The heart to praise, is strangely stirred, 
As if—it held a prisoned bird. 



TO A DAISY—WHITE DAISIES AND WHITE CLOVER 71 


TO A DAISY 

(In a city florist’s window.) 

Marguerite, my little winsome maid, 

How is it thou art not afraid 

That thou’It be left unmourned to fade? 

How did you ever come to stray 
From your green fields so far away, 

Into this brilliant world of day? 

Thou art of nature, not of art, 

And in this life nor lot nor part 
Hast thou with only gold of heart. 

Yet sweetly ’rayed in dainty white 
Of woven morning mist and light, 

To see thee is a blessed sight. 


WHITE DAISIES AND WHITE CLOVER 

O come into the fields to-day 
And smell the grasses growing, 

And watch the cloud-ships sail away, 

And feel the soft wind blowing. 

The meadows seem a milky-way, 

With star-bloom scattered over, 

Refined from clay, to light the day, 

White daisies and white clover. 

The bobolink’s nest in the grass 
Has lost its brown-winged cover; 

No startled whirring as we pass, 

The brooding time is over. 

The bobolink’s witch minstreley,— 

A full spring gurgling over; 

The meadow’s matchless melody 
No searching can recover. 

But for the loss we’ve double gain, 

Full fields of drifted sweetness, 

White daisies and white clover’s reign 
And give June days completeness. 



72 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


WHEN THE LINDEN IS IN FLOWER 

June is in her golden prime, 

Sweet with sweets of summer time; 

Bird on bough, bride in bower, 

When the Linden is in flower. 

Blossoms drooping from the leaves, 
Shaking, with the lightest breeze, 
Censer-sweets in a shower, 

When the Linden is in flower. 

Well-beloved of royalty, 

Favorite of honey bee 
Gathering honey every hour 
When the Linden is in flower. 


MONK’S-HOOD 

Inside the outer garden gate 
Waits somebody for me. 

One royal, of the bluest blood 
Of Spain’s nobility. 

At dawn my casement opens wide 
To see if he is there 

And then—I gaze upon the sky 
And see the dawn is fair! 

But if I once should miss the face 
A cowl hides from the sun, 

I know I’d curse his kingly race— 
Maybe, I’d be a nun. 

There is no chance for me to change, 
For all the summer through 

My cowl’d love haunts the garden gate 
And shuns not shine or dew. 

His heart is true as tempered steel 
Of old Toledo blades, 

And oft the cowl bends o’er my curls 
As twilight softly fades. 

My love is not a monk at all. 

Love oft comes in disguise, 

And ever is the son and heir 
Of royal dynasties. 



FLOWER GOLD—DRIFTING ROSES 


73 


FLOWER GOLD 

The Lady Flora went this way 
Since dewy dawn this very day, 

And careless swung her purse about 
For here’s a florin that fell out. 

Her bounty duplicates the gold 
Of every land where flowers unfold. 

The dandelions are eagles true, 

And king cups, dollars, minted new. 

And when through Spain her purse, loose tied, 
Goes swinging careless by her side. 

The children in long afternoons 
Follow to gather her doubloons. 

On quiet lakes, as on the land, 

The treasures fall from her free hand, 

And lily boats of ivory hold 
A sovereign each of purest gold. 

May Day 

* 


DRIFTING ROSES 

I may drift out on the tide, 

And the tides will come and go, 
And naught on the waters wide 
Will tell where I sleep below. 

I may drift out on the tide, 

But the roses in my hands 
Will be scattered far and wide, 
And cast up on far-off sands. 

I may drift out on the tide, 

But the bloom I cannot hold 
On the billows will safely ride— 
The billows that swallow gold; 

And my roses in strange sands 
Will root, on some other shore, 
And blossom for unknown hands, 
When I can scatter no more. 



74 


THE LAND OF HE ART-REST 


THE DREAM OF A BEAN 

I have dreamed such a dream, 

Such a wonderful dream, 

Said a little black bean, 

With a smile like a Dean. 

And the dream I must heed, 

I must rise and make speed. 

Still its eye looked straight down 
On a far Chinese town. 

Oh, I dreamed that I grew 
’Neath a sky of soft blue, 

And the rain came adown 
With real gems for my crown 
And the golden sun came 
And made brighter the flame 
Of my flowers ’mid the leaves 
That had reached the low eaves. 

Then it waked from its sleep 
That at first was so deep, 

And it started, though late, 

To bring true its dream fate. 

And it caught at a string 
And it made a bold spring, 

And—it reached the brown eaves 
With its ladder of leaves. 

And it grew, and it grew, 

All the summer time through, 

And its scarlet flowers hung 

In racemes from each rung 

Of the ladder of leaves 

That had reached the brown eaves. 

But the root travelled down 

Toward the far Chinese town. 

If it never had dreamed 
Of a world where day beamed, 
Would it reached for the sky, 
Caught a string to climb by? 
Would it twined ’gainst the sun 
’Till it victory won, 

As it hung from the eaves, 

Its flame-flowers and green leaves? 



A RED ROSE IN GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN 75 


A RED ROSE IN GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN 

Beside the footworn path that led 

The wide house door and gate between, 

A rose uplifted queenly head 

And smiled through lattices of green. 

Its petals were of rich deep red, 

Its depth of shade a rarity, 

The fine rose odor that it shed 
Was like the Lord’s sweet charity. 

I worshipped at that half-way shrine 
As oft I passed in childhood’s play. 

I cried, “O! Rose, my heart is thine; 

Give my thy heart, O! Rose, I pray.” 

I loved that darkly petaled rose, 

Its queenship was a verity, 

Nor summer heat nor winter snows 
Have changed that love’s sincerity. 

In memory it scents the air, 

The same, sweet subtle charm it hath 

As when it grew, divinely fair, 

A queen of beauty by the path. 


A ROSE BY MY GRAVE 

I hope, to mark my grave, 
They’ll set a stone, 

A rose in bold relief 
Sculptured thereon. 

And plant a sweet red rose 
Beside the mound, 

That opening buds may shed 
A fragrance round. 

And when the petals fall 
Of deep, deep red, 

They’ll drifted lie as if 
A heart had bled; 



76 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


MEMORY 

My mind lets go a thousand things, 

Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, 

And yet recalls the very hour— 

’Twas noon by yonder village tower, 

And on the last blue noon in May— 

The wind came briskly up this way, 

Crisping the brook beside the road, 

Then, pausing here, set down its load 
Of pine scents and shook listlessly 
Two petals from that wild rose tree. 

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 


Impromptu answer: 


MEMORY 

I, too, remember well, the time, 

The glory shining round, 

When those two petals from the rose 
Fell silent to the ground. 


A light haze veiled the far-off hills, 
The clouds went drifting by. 

In flowering grass the insects twanged 
A dreamy minstrelsy. 


And all the world seemed in a spell 
By some sweet magic bound, 
When those two petals from the rose 
Fell softly to the ground. 



ALWAYS A ROSE—THROUGH A FIELD GLASS 77 


ALWAYS A ROSE 

My love once said: “Oh, why do you 
Sing always of a rose? 

Is there no other flower for song 
Within the garden-close?” 

“I do not know, my love,” I said, 
“Unless it be, ’tis true, 

That God bade to love a rose, 

As He bade me love you.” 

Like prince of old he went his way, 

A song upon his lip, 

He sang about a rose, nor let 
A note of sweetness slip. 

And I at eve the garden sought, 

And there at random chose, 

I bore the chance flower to my love, 
When lo, it was a rose! 

THROUGH A FIELD GLASS 

I lift my glass up to my eyes 
And bring the far hill near. 

I see the path wind in the wood, 

The winsome wind I hear 
The sweetest nothings whispering, 

(Its tongue is never still), 

And yet those sweetest nothings give 
The leaves a joyous thrill. 

The pasture-land below the wood 
Is ribboned with the rills 
From springs whose waters feed the roots 
Of marsh-grass on the hills. 

There cattle graze, drink from the springs 
And ruminate in shade, 

All happily unconscious of 
The picture they have made. 

As berry pickers climb the hill, 

The sunshine on their pails. 

With them I seek the wild, sweet fields 
Hedged in by moss-grown rails. 

Yet all the while I’m sitting still, 

In her old rocking chair. 

The glass brings down the hill to me 
While it transports me there. 



78 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE HOLLYHOCKS 

When in the morning’s early glow 
With happy footsteps loitering so 
Adown the garden path I go, 

They bow so sweet, they bend so low, 

I wonder that such love they show 
To one who stands so far below. 

My hollyhocks! in stately row. 

Some black as night, some white as snow. 

Through all the fair mid-summer days, 
When through the nights Antares’ blaze 
Shines down upon the garden ways, 

All worshipful each flower obeys, 

And silently pours scented lays 
On rosy mist and purple haze, 

Each simply doing as He says 
In one of summer’s wonder-plays. 

Two arms above my head, and slight, 

The hollys grow, red, black and white. 

I wonder if they know by sight 
I love them as they love the light, 

That they bow low with such delight? 

Do they as they climb up the height 
Of ladder rounds grown night by night, 
Know I shall grieve when they take flight? 

August 6. 


THE FIFERS 

The chirping crickets pain the ear 
With tidings that the frost is near, 

While it is only harvest time 
And oats are in their golden prime. 

A subtle sense of sorrow will 
Creep to the heart, as through the still, 
Long hours of night the piercing cry 
Foretells the cold is coming nigh. 

But when the year is turned about, 

And storms are raging wild without, 

The fifer by the cosy hearth 

Brings back the summer’s vanished mirth. 




THE HOLLYHOCKS 


























THE GREAT BLUE CANTERBURY BELL 


79 


THE GREAT BLUE CANTERBURY BELL 

As down the garden path we walked, 

And in the twilight softly talked, 

Loud rang the Canterbury bell, 

I love you, love you, love you well. 

At hush of day how blest the sound 
That reached the garden’s utmost bound 
As rang the Canterbury bell, 

I love you, love you, love you well. 

The smaller bells chimed in the praise 
That surging went through garden ways, 

And sweet the music rose and fell 
As light winds swung each blue-domed bell. 

The cry from high muezzin tower 
That bends the knee, as wind bent flower. 
Weaves not in air so potent spell 
As chime of Canterbury bell. 

Ring out, fair bell, your call to prayer; 

True love is worship everywhere. 

Ring out the song, blue blessed bell, 

I love you, love you, love you well. 


WHEN THE SMALL SWEET BEECHNUTS 
FALL 

When the small sweet beechnuts fall 
On the farmstead’s mossy wall 
Then, hearts wish that it were spring 
When the robins ’gin to sing. 

For though straight, the way is long 
Through the cold to-days of song, 

Through the cold and drifted snows 
To the blossom of the rose. 

Sweetest life cannot skip pain, 

Years must have the snow and rain. 

Yet when ripened beechnuts fall, 

Would it were a robin’s call. 



80 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


GRAN’THER’S CLOCK 

I WATCHED THE SUMMER DIE 

I stood before my gran’ther’s great tall clock, 

At noon of night and watched the summer die. 

I looked into a face that never wore 
A smile or frown in all the hundred years 
That it has ticked into eternity. 

I watched the slender hands clasp for a breath 
And part again, one hasting on before. 

The solemn face looked down without a sign 
That summer days were numbered with the past, 

But in its tower kept measuring off time 
By seconds and by minutes and by hours. 

My heart ached as I heard the last heart beat 
Of summer, and the shout, “Long live the King,” 
That followed quick for autumn’s ripened reign. 

Time must go on! I stood a moment there, 

As last of Moorish Kings once stood, and gazed 
A moment on the Moorish palaces 
Which were no longer his, then passed the point 
Known as the Mountain of the Moor’s Last Sigh, 
Into to-morrow land. The gate was sealed 
When once 'twas passed that none might ’ere return. 
So none may pass from autumn that has come 
Back to the summer days that now are past. 

The summer time is better than the spring 
And autumn better than the summer time, 

Because then are fulfilled the promises 
Of spring and summer time. But is the cold 
That follows better than the warmth of life? 

’Tis best in this, the heart comes home from far, 
From faring over mountain and o’er field, 

To sit beside the hearth fire and enjoy 
The fruitage and the harvest of the year. 

The winter is the home time for the heart. 

And home life is the sweetest life on earth. 

Slowly and solemnly the clock struck twelve 
At high noon of to-day. It struck the same, 

But it was not the same. Last night I said, 

“ Good-bye, sweet summer, we’ve been loving friends, 
It makes me very sad to have you go; 

I never loved you half so much before. 

And all my life I shall be happier 

For all the pleasant things you’ve given me, 

I know I’ll see your face in Heaven again, 

But until then, sweet summer days, Good-bye!” 



A WITCH WEDDING 


81 


A WITCH WEDDING 


Witch Hazel. 

The winds are piping loud and clear; 

The mus’C swells; Jack Frost is near. 

0 west wind, sing! O north wind, blow! 
He said he’d come before the snow. 

And now I’ll slip from its brown snood 
My yellow hair, and through the wood 
I’ll hasten to the green fir tree, 

Where Prince Jack Frost will look for me. 


He’s gayly coming up the street, 

And there’s a skurrving of feet, 

To catch the gold that’s thrown to all, 
As bon-bons at a carnival, 

And all the world’s in livery, 

As gay as ever it can be: 

But Prince Jack Frost will look for me, 
And hasten to the green fir tree. 


Oh, Jack Frost’s coming is as bright 
As starry progress of the night: 

The frost and stars are mingled seen 
With yellows, reds, and evergreen 
In Indian summer’s magic days, 

When forests burn with radiant blaze, 
And gayest wedding mine will be, 

For Prince Jack comes to marry me! 


Jack Frost. 


I saw a shining in the wood, 

And knew it must be where you stood; 
My heart outran the fleetest feet 
To kiss the bride for prince most meet, 
And place a crown on your dear head, 
Who waited when the summer fled: 

O sweet witch with the yellow hair, 

I wonder could you be more fair! 



82 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


Men say I’m hard, and pinch the poor, 
That I pass by the rich man’s door, 

That in my realm dumb streams abound, 
That my touch chills the very ground, 
That flowers fear my icy breath, 

And that my very kiss means death; 

But fearlessly one waits for me— 

Witch Hazel by the green fir tree! 


The Wedding. 

Of rays of light was her bright crown, 
Of frosted silk her wedding-gown; 

For her upon the earth was spread 
The royal carpet, gold and red; 

The north wind blew a trumpet blast, 
And pine trees harped as it swept past, 
A gladsome wedding-march so grand 
It echoed wide on every hand. 


And, for good luck, with merry sound, 
A rattling rain beat on the ground 
A queer black rice by witches thrown— 
For sweet Witch Hazel was their own: 
And joyous was the day till done 
That made the prince and princess one; 
Then evening with her brightest star, 
Beckoned the way to lands afar. 


Envoi. 

When shining stars bare boughs adorn, 
Fair as the bloom of Holy Thorn, 

Witch Hazel’s story is retold— 

How shone her hair, iike crinkled gold, 
When loose it slipt from its brown snood 
As by the fir she waiting stood, 

The light of the November day, 

Ere Prince Jack Frost bore her away. 



SUMMIT VIEW—ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER 


83 


SUMMIT VIEW 

THE ROSE HAS PASSED 

The brooks are dry The scarlet poppies glow, 

The daisies drift the fields with summer snow. 

The grain stands ripe to fall, Prim roses blow 
Close by where elderberry hedges grow. 

Mulleins, with ready lighted tapers, stand 
To lead the flowers to the sunset land. 

In marshy places, spears of rush 

Are seen. Fields brighten with the fire weed’s blush, 

And coins of gold, the gold God loves, are found 

Wherever feet ot sunshine touch the ground 

In bloom of golden-rod and buttercup. 

The clovers lift their ruddy faces up 

For kiss of sun, and make the joy complete 

Of summer meadows with their breath of sweet. 

The spicy balm with blazing star of bloom 
Is set in thickets, lighting up their gloom. 

And everywhere the wondrous hues are seen 
That shade from sombre pine to willow green. 

The rose has passed. The soft wind, while we look, 
Has turned the middle page of summer’s book. 

July 23 


ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER 

I love the flowers that blossom late, 

That smilingly defy the fate 
Of drear and frosty weather; 

That seemingly reserve their best 
To make October days as blest 
As June with rose and heather. 

I love the year-time’s afternoon, 

When bitter-sweets the trees festoon, 
Their berries intertwining; 

When fields are purple as the haze 
On hill tops in St. Martin’s days 
With purple asters shining. 

I love the wild witch-hazel’s gold, 

Whose brightness seems to warm the cold 
Of drear November weather. 

May life’s day slipping to the west, 

With gold and purple be as blest 
As June with rose and heather. 



84 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE WILLOW TREE 

A willow grew before the dear old home, 

Its pendant branches all the summer through 
Were like a drapery of tender green, 

Before the window where I loved to read, 

As by each breath of wind they swayed and swung 
The movement seemed perfection of sweet grace, 

And every undulation I believed 
The heart beat of a spirit in the tree. 

Oft when the tiee was shaken bv a storm, 

The Spirit that I dreamed was prisoned there, 

Seemed in despair, and tossing branches were 
A mourner’s hair, dishevelled by great grief. 

And when the color faded from the world, 

And winter ruled, the willow’s empty hands 
Wrung constantly, moved by impassioned thought, 

And I mourned too, and gave the tree a love 
Its summer beauty had not power to win. 

In autumn, broken lances on the ground 
Suggested truce, but not a conquered tree, 

For in the spring came thousand lances more 
To wage the warfare of another year. 

But never was the willow tree so dear 
As when in spring, ’mid boughs still bare 
The robins built a nest, and mother called, 

“Come, little daughter, see what we have here, 

A robin’s nest in our old willow tree.’’ 

And every day we watched the nest until 
The birds within broke from their prison shell 
And flew away. Then we were glad of heart 
That from the willow there had risen a song. 

To those who saw it, passing by the house, 

The tree a fountain was of living green, 

The waters tossing up and down all day 
And night, a coolness making for the eye. 

Beneath its drooping branches when no wind 

Went shivering through them as they trailed the ground, 

It was a tent of shade from summer heat, 

It was all things to us. Our only tree, 

A thing of beauty and a constant joy— 

And a fair Spirit, truly, dwelt therein. 



PRINCE TURVEYDROP 


85 


PRINCE TURVEYDROP 

’Twas once when we were at the cottage home 
I made acquaintance of a lonely tree 
That grew upon a hill top high and bare 
And showed in silhouette against the sky, 

And straight I dubbed the tree, “Prince Turveydrop,” 
For there he stood, with all the grace he had, 

A model for his little dancing class. 

His little kit tucked under his left arm 
Just making his preliminary bow, 

The trees all bent as if to kiss the earth 
In graceful salutation to the sun, 

By reason of the west wind’s mighty breath 
That ever blew up through the narrow vale, 

Where our brown cottage, like a bobolink’s nest 
Was almost hidden in the summer grain. 

I grew to be quite fond of that lone tree 
And often thought of Prince’s constancy 
In service undertaken for love’s sake, 

He never tired in doing well, although 
For life, it was a dancing lesson’s bow. 

I always liked the old “Deportment’s” style, 

But still liked best the poor young man 
Who quite adored the father in old age 
And gave his life, content to serve for love. 

Oh, it was years ago I named the tree, 

When afternoons were long an there was time 
To read all Dickens through. The tree has grown 
Since then, retaining its peculiar form, 

And still is bowing to the blushing East. 



86 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


WHY TRIM THE HOUSE WITH HOLLY? 

“Why trim the house with holly boughs?" 

My gentle Mabel said, 

“There are no children in the house 
And th’ old folks are all dead.” 

Oh Mabel dear, for love of Christ 
We trim the house so gay, 

Because He left His throne on high 
And made the Christmas day. 

I’m sure it makes the angels glad 
Who sang at His high birth 

To see the wreaths at Christmas time 
Upon the dear old earth. 

I think they watch to see the sign 
Of love for Christ the King, 

And we cannot refuse to give 
The holly offering. 

So hang the brightest, greenest bough 
Where first the sunlight falls; 

Perhaps our loved may also see 
The sign from jasper walls. 

Dear child, we’ll trim with holly boughs, 

The blessed Christmas keep, 

Though no small feet are pattering ’round 
And th’ old folks are asleep. 



SONNETS 


“Considering the accumulated wealth of English poetry, 
it is questionable whether more sonnets, etc., are a real 
addition to it, and if a place worth having can be earned 
by polishing the countless facets of gems dependent on 
the fanciful analysis of love and other emotions.” 

Harper’s, Vol. 30, p. 795. 


THE FAR-OFF ROSE 


We travel far to find the things that grow 
And blossom by our daily walks, which o’er 
And o’er we pass, as to and from our door 
We seek our tasks. But sunset’s rosy glow 
Lights up a vale, or Alp-peak crowned with snow, 
And rapturous we gaze, to see no more 
Of beauty than we oft have seen before— 

The beauty of the near we did not know. 

We find our door-stone rose in far Caboul, 

We count the petals, ’tis the very same. 

We had not left our porch, rose-wreathed and cool, 
If we had known the near rose by its name. 

The wise man learns the truth as does the fool, 

The far-off rose is lustred o’er by fame. 


WHAT CARE THE BIRDS? 

What care the birds born in the nest this spring, 
That lovers listened to the overflow 
Of bird notes in the orchards long ago? 

Those birds are dead. The lovers listening 
To those sweet songs are dead. The new years bring 
New songsters nested in the blossom snow, 

Each song aimed sure, as arrow from a bow, 

To God set mark. Song is no aimless thing. 

Few sweet love songs, like ’Lisbeth Browning’s, live 
Long past the soulful singer’s passion tide. 

Alas for all, too high soars her strong wing, 

And one song cannot wealth of summer give. 

Most old songs having served have sweetly died, 
And in to-day God bids who can to sing! 


90 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


MY HOLY DAY 

In summer comes a Holy Day to me, 

The house is closed and I go far away, 

And with my dead spend all the hours of day. 

Oh, not as though they were beyond the sea, 

But for the time just as they used to be. 

For self to things clings in mysterious way, 

As sweetness clings to blooms of orange spray, 

The blossom’s very soul, by light set free. 

I touch the things they touched, hands seem to meet 
In loving grasp. And briar rose and musk 
Shake from each folded thing kept with such care. 
Oh, soul with memories, however sweet, 

’Bide not, go forth, seek those who bide in dusk 
And unto them this altar incense bear. 


THE YEAR TO COME 

Another year great will the elms be grown, 

With stronger root will roses bloom more free, 
And gorgeous will the spotted foxglove be, 
Beside the wall where this year seed was sown. 
Rare fruitage shall for barren days atone. 

All things around us that are fair to see 
Will be excelled by those that are to be, 

When all the days of this good year are flown. 
Oh, fool, and slow of heart to learn the truth, 
To-morrow is the same as yesterday, 

Both in the hands of God Omnipotent. 

One day he gives, it may be age or youth, 

And wise are we who walk life’s winding way, 
If we grasp joy, e’re our one day is spent. 



THE FACE OF FATE—TEARS 


91 


THE FACE OF FATE 

Long hours I sit and look into her face, 

The Sphinx-like face withouten love or hate, 
The dew falls and the dark comes as I wait, 
And still I’m riveted unto the place 
Where shines the searchlight of her eyes in space. 
Worn out and cold and sad, oh, late, so late, 

I dare to knock at her fair palace gate, 

For I must win a smile from her cold face. 

All weariness shall flee when she shall smile, 

Life will be warmed as with a sweet new wine. 
Forgotten in the Anthem Jubilate 
Will be the sorrow of the morning-mile. 

The first when I set out in shade and shine 
To be the conqueror of adverse fate. 


TEARS 

We pray, Oh, God, into our lives send tears. 

The splendor of the sunshine all the way, 

Chars life to dust without a rainy day. 

Send tears to save the harvests of our years. 

The sun that richly ripens, quickly sears, 

When roots their moisture lose, and sun-dried clay 
Yields only shriveled grain and withered hay, 
Where we had sown in hope of goodly ears. 

The ever sunshine burns to desertness. 

Save us from yellow sunshine, yellow sand! 

The sun is pleasant, sorrowful the rain, 

But in the end the sun is pitiless. 

Send tears as showers upon the desert land, 

For rain and shine bring back the rose again. 



92 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


BUCKWHEAT BLOOM 

Midsummer’s fairest days in northern clime, 

Come when o’er late-sown fields in stillest night 
The moon shakes hoar frost without chill or blight 
And crowns with snowy bloom the year’s fair prime. 
Oh, rare ripe days, when sounds of harvest chime, 
When fields which tesselate the vale or height, 

Are squares of changing color, dark or light 
As winds wave grass or grain or flowery rime. 

An odorous smell of honey loads the breeze 

That erst bore new-mown hay and scent of rose, 
When blooms the red-stemmed wheat a feast for bees. 

And when the harvester the goodly yield 
Of grain has garnered in the stubble glows 
An aftermath of color in the field. 


LACHRYMAE CHRISTI 

Hearts oft ’neath smiles like Mount Vesuvius burn. 
Sometimes fire seems extinct, but listening 
Is ever heard a fateful murmuring. 

Oh, woe to those, when streams of lava spurn 
Their bounds, and ash profane fills sacred urn! 

To lands ash-smoothered never more the spring 
The tender green to branches brown will bring. 
Will sweets of spring to those lives ne’er return? 

Yet on green slopes warmed by the fire within, 
There ripens in the fruitful Somma vine 
A musky sweet no other vine can claim. 

Thus, too, the passionate—who fear to sin— 

O’er depths of death grow for the master’s wine 
Pure Muscat fruit, whose sweet is unseen flame. 



THOUGH POETS DIE—HER FAN 


93 


THOUGH POETS DIE 

4 ‘The great poets are all dead now.” 

Songs cease and singers pass where angels wait, 

And yet no star falls from its place on high; 

No sign of mourning shades the shining sky; 

For him who climbs still grows the luscious date; 

The bulbul still sings love songs to its mate; 

The bride’s white feet kiss flowers that-scattered lie; 
Still mother-love croons tender lullaby; 

And moon-kissed ocean-tides pursue their fate. 

The wind sings to the wood, and still in song 
The year’s four epics are to earth retold; 

The shining constellations light the sky 
Of solemn night; still singing to the throng 
Are minstrel harpers, as in days of old; 

And life is beautiful, though poets die. 


HER FAN 

Her fan is sacred to me evermore. 

And strange a common thing could be so dear, 
But oft I saw it in her hand when here. 

And now I sit, where through the open door 
The sheen and shade lay patterns on the floor 
And hold her fan as ’twere her hand. No peer 
Had she in life and gone is half life’s cheer 
Since she has gone, to come back nevermore. 

Her grace and sweetness, ere God gave her crown, 
Cling still to her belongings. Everything 
She used or wore before she laid life down, 

The violin with which she used to sing, 

Her books, her fan, and—so like her—the gown 
She wore, my poor heart breaks, remembering. 



94 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


a 


WE KNOW NOT HIS TIME 

Not one upon this floating ball can say, 

The task which God gave me, will all be done 
To-day, and I can rest at set of sun. 

It is not given to man to know the day 
In which he may his work completed lay 
Before the King. Full oft but just begun 
Life seems, when suddenly! the race is won, 

The victor crowned. Palm branches shade the way 
With shadow dark as they were grave-yard yew— 
It seems defeat, when it is victory. 

For we know not when we’ve attained our best. 
When task is done assigned to each to do, 

When utmost limit of our power to be 
Is reached, know not His time to give us rest. 


WHATSOEVER HE SAITH UNTO YOU, 
DO IT” 

(John ii; 5) 

Sit by this spring and watch till it runs dry, 

He bade me, and in hours of listening 
I learned to love the spring’s sweet chattering. 

Yet as I waited oft I wondered, why? 

When one rare dawn I heard the spring’s last sigh, 
The watch was over. Then He bade me sing. 
Though mourned my heart for laughter of the spring 
A song uprose,—a longing for the sky. 

For joy is only found in following 

The voice of Him who leads His own safe through 

Life’s Sinai Wilderness. He bade me wait, 

Then sing, and what He bids to bear or do— 

Though Naaman-like we wish the task were great,— 
Brings blessing which o’er pays all suffering. 



THE FAULTLESS DEAD—SUNSHINE-KISSED 95 


THE FAULTLESS DEAD 

The dead have not a fault; the faults are ours, 

And when we too are dead Love will not see 
That there was ever fault in you or me. 

Then ceases friction of contending powers, 

Then traits of good stand out like ivory towers 
On noon-lit plains, when shadows give no key, 
Where dawn and dusk dream by the sounding sea. 

Then, after death, the life’s true beauty flowers. 

The dead, when living, like ourselves had faults, 
They were as speckles on a ripened peach, 

A blot on beauty, which spoils not the sweet. 

But, passed to Paradise, our love exalts 
The gentleness of daily life and speech 
And feeds the memory on winnowed wheat. 


SUNSHINE-KISSED 

The tender grape leaf hath the rosy blush 

The sunshine’s kiss leaves on the ripened peach. 
Oh, blessings bright, the sunshine brings to each 
And every living thing. Sweet juices rush 
Through trellised branches, sunshine-kissed buds push 
From bare, brown boughs; while pale, green tendrils 
reach, 

And bounding life, withouten other speech, 

Laughs forth in royal clusters fair and lush. 

Oh, wise are they who gather in the hand, 

From vines of God’s own planting everywhere, 

The purple clusters growing within reach. 

And fret not that they do not understand 
Why grapes grow not on brambles or the fair 
Rose blush alike is on the vine and peach. 



96 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


CLOVERS 

Oh! every day brings lovely gifts to me 
But they are gifts of every day, and pass 
Uncounted like the countless blades of grass 
Until by use of healing Euphrasy 
The sight is cleared and eyes gain power to see 
The grace of common things. A clear tall glass 
Holds in’t a bunch of clovers that surpass 
All wildings for the busy honey bee. 

Red, white and pink, it came a glad surprise, 

The guerdon of a walk far from the street 
And each with other sweet than honey’s fraught. 
For though they’re common things, love glorifies 
The simple gift of clovers fair and sweet 
Till it seems sweetest gift love could have brought. 


THE LORD’S SUPPER 

Things better than I dreamed have come to me 
And my poor heart is more than satisfied 
Although what things I asked have been denied. 
I dreamed of splendor that should regal be 
When all my ships came safely home from sea. 

But if to-day by favoring wind and tide 
My goodly ships should into harbor ride 
The sight of each rich freighted argosy 
Would thrill me not with pride as once I thought. 
For I’ve been privileged with Christ to sup 
In heavenly place upon a mountain top, 

For me his own right hand hath brimmed the cup 
With wine so rare ’twere sin to spill a drop, 

And now the splendor of the world is naught. 



THE NEAREST CROSS—MOUNTAIN DAYS 


97 


THE NEAREST CROSS 

Bear what thou hast to bear, ana give God praise. 
Thou knowest not the trial which shall be 
Thy souls great joy through all eternity. 

Thou knowest only that on thee He lays 
A burden to be borne for Him. Then raise 
This cry, both night and day, “Oh, God, to me 
Be merciful. Grant that I patiently 
My burden bear till death shall end my days.” 
Then as thy day shall strength to thee be given, 
But never given till the hour of need. 

Most merciful and loving is our God, 

He careth for us each in His high heaven,— 

He careth that the birds have feast of seed, 

Yet all His own must pass beneath the rod. 


MOUNTAIN DAYS 

Life’s mountain days, are days of pomp and state, 
That rise above the common days, and stand 
As mountains towering o’er the level land. 

Each hath its joy, its privilege, its fate. 

And each high day, hath joy commensurate 
For trials which we do not understand, 

But which are borne, with only change of hand 
’Till this day’s respite comes, or soon or late, 

And every life hath its own mountain days, 

Days brimming full of sweetest ecstasy 
When wheels of care are left to creak below 
And feet with winged sandals gaily go 

Up mountain heights for laurel bloom and bays, 
And win a day of pure felicity. 



98 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


HIS PLAN 

There seems such small necessity that I 

Should live my little life. The changing scene 
Of battle song, field-days of gold and green, 

Would shift the same if I unknown should lie 
Serenely sleeping ’neath the sod and sky. 

And yet it cannot be but God did mean 
Some work for me, the end by Him foreseen, 
However small it be, before I die. 

Some work is mine—no other hand can serve 
The King in what He has Ordained for me, 

And thus the small life seemeth not so small. 
Without the touch, which must not shrink or swerve, 
My hand must give, it will not perfect be— 

The work which this world would not miss at all. 

March 17, 1907. 


THE SABBATH 

The silence in the air is sweet as light, 

That broods o’er sweetest meadow lands in June. 

It seems as if the day were in a swoon, 

So deep the quiet from the noon of night 
To noon of night again. The air is bright, 

The smoke-clouds cease when stops the work¬ 
day rune 

Of whirring spindles and all things attune 
To praise as Sabbath hours go by in white. 

How blest the time when haunting visions fade 
As dreams, before the light so bright and calm. 
How good that God should this fair respite give! 
As Una’s Knight revived beneath the shade 

Of goodly trees, whose leaves dropped healing balm. 
So from the Sabbath comes fresh strength to live. 



ROSES—MIGNONETTE 


99 


ROSES 

Oh, comfort me with roses, day by day, 

As thorn-set paths I follow to the skies. 

A sov’ran balm in their cool sweetness lies 
To comfort weary souls along life’s way. 

Bind roses on my brow with sprigs of bay 
When joy some happy day doth solemnize; 

And fresh rose petals lay on my tired eyes 
When death shall close them, and I go away. 

Seems floating ’round a heavenly atmosphere 

When roses bloom. They spring from common mold, 
Yet lend a grace unto the palace hall. 

They bloom for bridal wreath, and for the bier, 

They bring sweet thoughts of Christ, as buds unfold 
And break their very heart of hearts for all. 


MIGNONETTE 

Of constancy the type is mignonette, 

The flower of Saxony. Its gown of green 
For likeness to the grass can scarce be seen. 

And low it grows. Though in the garden set 
In place of honor, near the Queen Noisette, 

The blooming spikes, with fire sparks in their sheen, 
A lustre soft throws o’er the garden scene— 

Like love’s swift glances lovers ne’er forget, 

With the same smile that all the world hath won, 

It fills with sweet the hours of summer days, 

And always has to give, because it gives always, 
Not thinking that a great thing hath been done. 
Until the frost comes, pinching out its blaze 
It pours its life an offering to the Sun. 



100 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


CHANDRA MUKHI BOSE, M. A. 

“Chono" of Dehra School. 

A girl of India, in a college gown! 

She reached, and grasped in eager hands, 

And in the joy of overcoming stands 
As proud as if the cap were jeweled crown. 

She reached, but not for self alone brought down 
The precious prize. Her just success commands 
Admiring love of women of all lands, 

But most to India is her renown. 

The day hath dawned, the light makes glad the eyes, 
The darkness flees, where long the darkness reigned. 
In Ind, where on mud walls the fuel dries 
And bears “the imprint of a woman's hand," 

The moon-faced girl of Dehra hath obtained 
The laurel worn by scholars of her land. 

Sometimes there is a mud wall around the hut, and this 
wall and the sides of the hut are covered with round cakes 
of cow manure, drying for fuel, each about the size of a 
buck-wheat cake, and each bearing the imprint of a 
woman’s hand.—Frank G. Carpenter. 


THE GRASS 

The sweetest work God gives the grass to do 
Is weaving greenest rug to hide the wound 
Made by the spade in breaking solid ground 
That we may our dead in graves all new, 

’Ere we turn back to things we used to do. 

But ’ere we turn, come feet that make no sound, 
The weaver’s feet, to measure length of mound. 

And in the dark they shuttle through and through, 
Weave in and out, so still and patiently 

Through warp of roots, a woof of velvet green. 

So common is the grass, we count it as the ground, 
We tread upon it most irreverently, 

But by the grave whereon no grass is seen 
We pray the grass to hide the earth’s sad wound. 



UNFADING BLOOM—SPANISH DAYS 


101 


UNFADING BLOOM 

The new, by simply being, soon grows old, 

The glow of color loses as things fade, 

The wear of life is told by fainter shade 
Of color in the red and green and gold. 

Is beauty lost that turns again to mold? 

Oh, naught in life is lost, but laid away 
To be brought out again some other day 
When angels shall the life of each unfold. 

Then shall the brightness be restored to view 
That faded as we gazed, as stars of night 
Fade and appear, their beauty ever new. 

Then shall we see the pictures from the loom 
Where once we wrought, each color freshly bright 
Each fair design unfading in its bloom. 


SPANISH DAYS 

'Ere Spanish caravels had crossed the sea, 

Or far lands knew Queen Isabella’s name, 

Our forests blazed with non-consuming flame. 
O’er hill and valley of the land to be 
The free man’s home, the burning maple tree 
Flung on the breeze a regal sign of claim, 

Of red and gold, its glowing hues the same 
That bloomed in banners of Spain’s monarchy. 

Late summer brings the gift of Spanish days,. 
When reds and yellows reign o’er hill and plain. 
Then cardinal and balm in scarlet blaze, 

And red and gold the stubble after grain. 

Then golden-rod gilds all the common ways, 
And life is sweet, in castles of our Spain. 



102 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


A GLEANER 

(Leviticus 19:9) 

Long years ago I asked that I might be 
A gleaner in the fields of every day— 

The common days, so many, cold and gray; 

And straightway my dear Lord did answer me, 

By opening my blind eyes that I might see 
How longed-for treasure all around me lay; 

How corners were uncut along the way, 

As God himself commanded they should be. 

A tossing sea waved in the meadows green, 
Ensphered, the sun smiled in a drop of dew; 

A moon bow spanned the mists two days between, 
And earth and sky seemed all created new. 

Each day was glorified when I could glean 

Rich sheaves in every field my life wound through. 


HAMMER-WORK 

The trials which to perfectness will bring 

Our lives, are measured as life’s needs require 
With absolute exactness. We aspire 
To wear the glorious beauty of the King, 

But shrink with fear from the strange fashioning, 
Which preparation is for crown and lyre, 

Shrink from the hammer-beating and the fire, 
And from the lapidary’s polishing. 

But what if spared the friction and the blow 
Which shines and shapes, and death should 
sudden call? 

Reluctant with the angel would we go 

With life a gem in rough, the gold untried 
For compensation will He give past all 
The pain of blow, or fire that purified. 



THE ALABASTER BOX—THE GINGKO TREE 103 


THE ALABASTER BOX 

The alabaster box gave out no sweet 

Until ’twas broken, when the house was filled 
With costly spikenard odors which fulfilled 
The promise that it held. So at His feet 
Must life be poured, must break to be complete! 

Fine attars are from broken flowers distilled. 
Wheat feeds no man till ’twixt rough stones 
’tis milled. 

Thus sorrow from the life draws sweetest sweet. 

Oh, Lord of Love, to thee a heart I bring 
Which has been bruised between the grinding stones, 
And if it thus shall yield a fragrancy 
Most meet and rare for offering to my King, 

While through the house floats breath of flowering 
zones 

I shall rejoice in pain that praises Thee. 

The Morning Times 


THE GINGKO TREE 

Arbor Day , May 7th , igog 

The Gingko tree, planted by the young men of the 
High School in memory of Russell Mumford Tuttle, in 
Union Park, just opposite Heart-Rest House. 


Oh, tree, we set thy roots in dark, damp ground 
Nearby the fountain, whose soft falling spray 
With lulling sound charms summer hours away. 
Within the city’s pleasance, where is found 
A respite from the throb of traffic round. 

We plant thee by a worn and travelled way, 
Where foot-steps cross and recross, night and day, 
And bid thy mute life give speech without sound. 
Where his child-feet oft trod in beauty grow. 

Give bough to bird, to cheer with gladsome strain, 
Earth nurture thee, and sun and sleet and snow 
Make thy green greener, and the summer rain 
Bring blessing down—may nature gracious be 
And grant a hale long life,—in memory. 




104 


THE LAND OF HEART-REST 


THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 

When Christmas Roses blossom in the snow, 

The lives too busy all the summer long 
To listen to the angels under song 
Which runs through time, feel in their hearts a glow 
Of love for all—such as young lovers know— 

And friend gives unto friend—a Book of Song, 
What honor to the singing poet throng 
To be brought out when Christmas Roses blow! 

And flower and gem, carv’d cup and lacquer-ware, 
All choicest gifts and best, and hoarded gold 
Are freely brought from out Love’s Treasury, 

And to the world the royal message bear, 

When Christmas Roses blossom in the cold. 

“Good will to men”—Incarnate Mystery. 












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